1 


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bp  Eleanor  $.  porter 

PUBLISHED   BY 

HOUGHTON  MIFFUN  COMPANY 


DAWN.     Illustrated. 

THE  TANGLED  THREADS.     Illustrated. 

THE  TIE  THAT   BINDS.     Illustrated. 

ACROSS  THE  YEARS.     Illustrated. 

OH,  MONEY!  MONEY!     Illustrated. 

THE    ROAD  TO   UNDERSTANDING.     Illustrated. 

JUST  DAVID.     Illustrated. 


The  Tangled  Threa 


ds 


.  OP  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  AHGELBS 


DAWN,     i 
THE  TANGL 
THE  TIE  THA. 
ACROSS  THE  YE 
OH,  MONEY!   MOI> 
THE    ROAD  TO   UNL 
JUST  DAVID.     Illustrat 


OP  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  AHGBLBS 


WITH  FACES  THAT  EXPRESSED  PUZZLED  ANXIETY 
SAT  FIVE  SILENT  CHILDREN    (page  267) 


THE 
TANGLED 
THREADS 


WitK  Drawings  By 
Helen  Mason  Grose 


Houghton  Miff  lin  Companx 

The  Riverside  Press 


\ 


TO  MY  FRIEND 
ANNIE   SANFORD   HEAD 


2131928 


Contents 

A  DELAYED  HERITAGE 3 

THE  FOLLY  OF  WISDOM 17 

CRUMBS 34 

A  FOUR-FOOTED  FAITH  AND  A  Two     ....     53 

A  MATTER  OF  SYSTEM 65 

ANGELUS 90 

THE  APPLE  OF  HER  EYE 101 

A  MUSHROOM  OF  COLLINGSVILLE 128 

THAT  ANGEL  BOY 139 

THE  LADY  IN  BLACK 155 

THE  SAVING  OF  DAD 166 

MILLIONAIRE  MIKE'S  THANKSGIVING        .     .     .   179 

WHEN  MOTHER  FELL  ILL 196 

THE  GLORY  AND  THE  SACRIFICE 208 

THE  DALTONS  AND  THE  LEGACY 221 

THE  LETTER 239 

THE  INDIVISIBLE  FIVE 250 

THE  ELEPHANT'S  BOARD  AND  KEEP    ....  270 

A  PATRON  OF  ART 284 

WHEN  POLLY  ANN  PLAYED  SANTA  CLAUS     .     .  294 

Tjie  stories  in  this  volume  are  here  reprinted  by  the  courteous 
permission  of  the  publishers  of  the  periodicals  in  which  they  first 
appeared,  —  Lippincott's  Magazine,  The  Metropolitan  Maga- 
zine, McCall's  Magazine,  Harper's  Magazine,  The  American 
Magazine,  Progress  Magazine,  The  Arena,  The  Christian  Endea- 
\fx  World.The  Congregationalist  and  Christian  World.The  House- 
wife, Harper's  Bazar,  Judge's  Library  Magazine,  The  New  England 
Magazine,  People's  Short  Story  Magazine,  The  Christian  Her- 
ald, The  Ladies'  World. 


To! 


V 


WlTH   FACES  THAT   EXPRESSED   PUZZLED  ANXIETY 

SAT  FIVE  SILENT  CHILDREN  (Page  267)  Frontispiece 
"WHY,  IF  i  COULD  ONLY  SKIN  IT"  .     18 

SOMETIMES  SHE  WOULD  TURN  TO  THE  RIGHT  AND 
PAUSE  AT  THE  BROW  OF  THE  HILL       ...    98 

"GEE-WHIZ!  MARM  —  BUT  YER  ARE  A  BRICK!"  .  154 

"I's  — HERE" 158 

"I'VE  GOT  MY  DOUBTS  OF  WEST"    ....  236 
"WELL,  WHY  NOT?"  SHE  ASKED  HERSELF     .      .  300 


From  drawings  by  Helen  Mason  Grose 


r 


The 


Threads 


A  Delayed  Heritage 

WHEN  Hester  was  two  years  old  a 
wheezy  hand-organ  would  set  her  eyes 
to  sparkling  and  her  cheeks  to  dimpling,  and 
when  she  was  twenty  the  "Maiden's  Prayer,'* 
played  by  a  school-girl,  would  fill  her  soul  with 
ecstasy. 

To  Hester,  all  the  world  seemed  full  of  mel- 
ody. Even  the  clouds  in  the  sky  sailed  slowly 
along  in  time  to  a  stately  march  in  her  brain,  or 
danced  to  the  tune  of  a  merry  schottische  that 
sounded  for  her  ears  alone.  And  when  she  saw 
the  sunset  from  the  hill  behind  her  home,  there 
was  always  music  then  —  low  and  tender  if  the 
colors  were  soft  and  pale-tinted,  grand  and 
awful  if  the  wind  blew  shreds  and  tatters  of 
storm-clouds  across  a  purpling  sky.  All  this 
was  within  Hester;  but  without  — 

There  had  been  but  little  room  in  Hester's 
life  for  music.  Her  days  were  an  endless  round 
of  dish-washing  and  baby-tending  —  first  for 


The  Tangled  Threads 

her  mother,  later  for  herself.  There  had  been 
no  money  for  music  lessons,  no  time  for  piano 
practice.  Hester's  childish  heart  had  swelled 
with  bitter  envy  whenever  she  saw  the  coveted 
music  roll  swinging  from  some  playmate's  hand. 
At  that  time  her  favorite  "make-believe"  had 
been  to  play  at  going  for  a  music  lesson,  with 
a  carefully  modeled  roll  of  brown  paper  sus- 
pended by  a  string  from  her  fingers. 

Hester  was  forty  now.  Two  sturdy  boys  and 
a  girl  of  nine  gave  her  three  hungry  mouths  to 
feed  and  six  active  feet  to  keep  in  holeless 
stockings.  Her  husband  had  been  dead  two 
years,  and  life  was  a  struggle  and  a  problem. 
The  boys  she  trained  rigorously,  giving  just 
measure  of  love  and  care;  but  the  girl  —  ah, 
Penelope  should  have  that  for  which  she  her- 
self had  so  longed.  Penelope  should  take  music 
lessons ! 

During  all  those  nine  years  since  Penelope 
had  come  to  her,  frequent  dimes  and  quarters, 
with  an  occasional  half-dollar,  had  found  their 
way  into  an  old  stone  jar  on  the  top  shelf  in  the 
pantry.  It  had  been  a  dreary  and  pinching 
economy  that  had  made  possible  this  horde  of 


A  Delayed  Heritage 

silver,  and  its  effects  had  been  only  too  visible 
in  Hester's  turned  and  mended  garments,  to 
say  nothing  of  her  wasted  figure  and  colorless 
cheeks.  Penelope  was  nine  now,  and  Hester 
deemed  it  a  fitting  time  to  begin  the  spending 
of  her  treasured  wealth. 

First,  the  instrument:  it  must  be  a  rented 
one,  of  course.  Hester  went  about  the  labor 
of  procuring  it  in  a  state  of  exalted  bliss  that 
was  in  a  measure  compensation  for  her  long 
years  of  sacrifice. 

Her  task  did  not  prove  to  be  a  hard  one.  The 
widow  Butler,  about  to  go  South  for  the  winter, 
was  more  than  glad  to  leave  her  piano  in  Hes- 
ter's tender  care,  and  the  dollar  a  month  rent 
which  Hester  at  first  insisted  upon  paying  was 
finally  cut  in  half,  much  to  the  widow  Butler's 
satisfaction  and  Hester's  grateful  delight.  This 
much  accomplished,  Hester  turned  her  steps 
toward  the  white  cottage  wherein  lived  Mar- 
garet Gale,  the  music  teacher. 

Miss  Gale,  careful,  conscientious,  but  of 
limited  experience,  placed  her  services  at  the 
disposal  of  all  who  could  pay  the  price — thirty- 
five  cents  an  hour;  and  she  graciously  accepted 

5 


The  Tangled  Threads 

the  name  of  her  new  pupil,  entering  "  Penelope 
Martin"  on  her  books  for  Saturday  mornings 
at  ten  o'clock.  Then  Hester  went  home  to  tell 
her  young  daughter  of  the  bliss  in  store  for  her. 

Strange  to  say,  she  had  cherished  the  secret 
of  the  old  stone  jar  all  these  years,  and  had  never 
told  Penelope  of  her  high  destiny.  She  pictured 
now  the  child's  joy,  unconsciously  putting  her 
own  nine-year-old  music-hungry  self  in  Penel- 
ope's place. 

"Penelope,"  she  called  gently. 

There  was  a  scurrying  of  light  feet  down  the 
uncarpeted  back  stairs,  and  Penelope,  breath- 
less, rosy,  and  smiling,  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"Yes,  mother." 

"Come  with  me,  child,"  said  Hester,  her 
voice  sternly  solemn  in  her  effort  to  keep  from 
shouting  her  glad  tidings  before  the  time. 

The  woman  led  the  way  through  the  kitchen 
and  dining-room  and  threw  open  the  parlor 
door,  motioning  her  daughter  into  the  somber 
room.  The  rose-color  faded  from  Penelope's 
cheeks. 

"Why,  mother!  what  —  what  is  it?  Have  I 
been  —  naughty?"  she  faltejed. 

60 


A  Delayed  Heritage 

Mrs.  Martin's  tense  muscles  relaxed  and  she 
laughed  hysterically. 

"No,  dearie,  no!  I — I  have  something  to  tell 
you,"  she  answered,  drawing  the  child  to  her 
and  smoothing  back  the  disordered  hair.  "What 
would  you  rather  have  —  more  than  anything 
else  in  the  world?"  she  asked;  then,  unable  to 
kec  p  her  secret  longer,  she  burst  out,  "  I  Ve  got 
it,  Penelope!  — oh,  I've  got  it!" 

The  little  girl  broke  from  the  restraining 
an  ns  and  danced  wildly  around  the  room. 

"Mother!  Really?  As  big  as  me?  And  will  it 
ta^k  —  say  'papa'  and  'mamma,'  you  know?" 

."What!" 

Something  in  Hester's  dismayed  face  brought 
t/he  prancing  feet  to  a  sudden  stop. 
/    "It  —  it's  a  doll,  is  n't  it?"  the  child  stam- 
mered. 

Hester's  hands  grew  cold. 

"A  —  a  doll!"  she  gasped. 

Penelope  nodded  —  the  light  gone  from  her 
eyes. 

For  a  moment  the  woman  was  silent;  then 
she  threw  back  her  head  with  a  little  shake  and 
laughed  forcedly. 

7 


The  Tangled  Threads 

"A  doll!  —  why,  child,  it's  as  much  nicer 
than  a  doll  as  —  as  you  can  imagine.  It's  a 
piano,  dear  —  a  pi-a-no!"  she  repeated  im- 
pressively, all  the  old  enthusiasm  coming  back 
at  the  mere  mention  of  the  magic  word. 

"Oh!"  murmured  Penelope,  with  some  show 
of  interest. 

"And  you're  to  learn  to  play  on  it!" 

"Oh-h!"  said  Penelope  again,  but  with  hss 
interest. 

"To  play  on  it!  Just  think,  dear,  how  fine 
that  will  be!"  The  woman's  voice  was  growing 
wistful. 

"Take  lessons?  Like  Mamie,  you  mean?" 

"Yes,  dear." 

"But  —  she  has  to  practice  and  — " 

"Of  course,"  interrupted  Hester  eagerly. 
"That's  the  best  part  of  it  —  the  practice." 

"Mamie  don't  think  so,"  observed  Penelope 
dubiously. 

"Then  Mamie  can't  know,"  rejoined  Hes- 
ter with  decision,  bravely  combating  the  chill 
that  was  creeping  over  her.  "Come,  dear, 
help  mother  to  clear  a  space,  so  we  may  be 
ready  when  the  piano  comes,"  she  finished, 

8 


A  Delayed  Heritage 

crossing  the  room  and  moving  a  chair  to  one 
side. 

But  when  the  piano  finally  arrived,  Penel- 
ope was  as  enthusiastic  as  even  her  mother 
could  wish  her  to  be,  and  danced  about  it  with 
proud  joy.  It  was  after  the  child  had  left  the 
house,  however,  that  Hester  came  with  rever- 
ent step  into  the  darkened  room  and  feasted 
her  eyes  to  her  heart's  content  on  the  reality  of 
her  dreams. 

Half  fearfully  she  extended  her  hand  and 
softly  pressed  the  tip  of  her  fourth  finger  to  one 
of  the  ivory  keys;  then  with  her  thumb  she 
touched  another  a  little  below.  The  resulting 
dissonance  gave  her  a  vague  unrest,  and  she 
gently  slipped  her  thumb  along  until  the  har- 
mony of  a  major  sixth  filled  her  eyes  with  quick 
tears. 

"Oh,  if  I  only  could!"  she  whispered,  and 
pressed  the  chord  again,  rapturously  listening 
to  the  vibrations  as  they  died  away  in  the  quiet 
room.  Then  she  tiptoed  out  and  closed  the 
door  behind  her. 

During  the  entire  hour  of  that  first  Saturday 
morning  lesson  Mrs.  Martin  hovered  near  the 

•p 


The  Tangled  Threads 

parlor  door,  her  hands  and  feet  refusing  to  per- 
form their  accustomed  duties.  The  low  mur- 
mur of  the  teacher's  voice  and  an  occasional 
series  of  notes  were  to  Hester  the  mysterious 
rites  before  a  sacred  shrine,  and  she  listened  in 
reverent  awe.  When  Miss  Gale  had  left  the 
house,  Mrs.  Martin  hurried  to  Penelope's  side. 

"How  did  it  go?  What  did  she  say?  Play  me 
what  she  taught  you,"  she  urged  excitedly. 

Penelope  tossed  a  consequential  head  and 
gave  her  mother  a  scornful  glance. 

"Pooh!  mother,  the  first  lesson  ain't  much. 
I  Ve  got  to  practice." 

"Of  course,"  acknowledged  Hester  in  con- 
ciliation; "but  how?  —  what?" 

"That  —  and  that  —  and  from  there  to 
there,"  said  Penelope,  indicating  with  a  pink 
forefinger  certain  portions  of  the  page  before 
her. 

"Oh!"  breathed  Hester,  regarding  the  notes 
with  eager  eyes.  Then  timidly,  "Play  —  that 


one." 


With  all  the  importance  of  absolute  cer- 
tainty Penelope  struck  C. 
"And  that  one." 

10 


A  Delayed  Heritage 

Penelope's  second  finger  hit  F. 

"And  that  —  and  that  —  and  that,"  swiftly 
demanded  Hester. 

Penelope's  cheeks  grew  pink,  but  her  fingers 
did  not  falter.  Hester  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Oh,  how  quick  you've  learned  'em!"  she 
exclaimed. 

Her  daughter  hesitated  a  tempted  moment. 

"Well  —  I  —  I  learned  the  notes  in  school," 
she  finally  acknowledged,  looking  sidewise  at 
her  mother. 

But  even  this  admission  did  not  lessen  for 
Hester  the  halo  of  glory  about  Penelope's  head. 
She  drew  another  long  breath. 

"But  what  else  did  Miss  Gale  say?  Tell  me 
everything  —  every  single  thing,"  she  reiter- 
ated hungrily. 

That  was  not  only  Penelope's  first  lesson, 
but  Hester's.  The  child,  flushed  and  important 
with  her  sudden  promotion  from  pupil  to 
teacher,  scrupulously  repeated  each  point  in 
the  lesson,  and  the  woman,  humble  and  earn- 
estly attentive,  listened  with  bated  breath. 
Then,  Penelope,  still  airily  consequential,  prac- 
ticed for  almost  an  hour. 

II 


The  Tangled  Threads 

Monday,  when  the  children  were  at  school, 
Hester  stole  into  the  parlor  and  timidly  seated 
herself  at  the  piano. 

"  I  think  —  I  am  almost  sure  I  could  do  it," 
she  whispered,  studying  with  eager  eyes  the 
open  book  on  the  music  rack.  "I  —  I 'm  go- 
ing to  try,  anyhow!"  she  finished  resolutely. 

And  Hester  did  try,  not  only  then,  but  on 
Tuesday,  Wednesday,  and  thus  until  Satur- 
day —  that  Saturday  which  brought  with  it  a 
second  lesson. 

The  weeks  passed  swiftly  after  that.  Hes- 
ter's tasks  seemed  lighter  and  her  burdens  less 
grievous  since  there  was  now  that  ever-present 
refuge  —  the  piano.  It  was  marvelous  what  a 
multitude  of  headaches  and  heartaches  five 
minutes  of  scales,  even,  could  banish;  and 
when  actual  presence  at  the  piano  was  impos- 
sible, there  were  yet  memory  and  anticipa- 
tion left  her. 

For  two  of  these  weeks  Penelope  practiced 
her  allotted  hour  with  a  patience  born  of  the 
novelty  of  the  experience.  The  third  week  the 
"hour"  dwindled  perceptibly,  and  the  fourth 
week  it  was  scarcely  thirty  minutes  lory 

12 


A  Delayed  Heritage 

"Come,  dearie,  don't  forget  your  practice," 
Hester  sometimes  cautioned  anxiously. 

"Oh,  dear  me  suz!"  Penelope  would  sigh, 
and  Hester  would  watch  her  with  puzzled 
eyes  as  she  disconsolately  pulled  out  the  piano 
stool. 

"Penelope,"  she  threatened  one  day,  "I  shall 
certainly  stop  your  lessons  —  you  don't  half 
appreciate  them."  But  she  was  shocked  and 
frightened  at  the  relief  that  so  quickly  showed 
in  her  young  daughter's  eyes.  Hester  never 
made  that  threat  again,  for  if  Penelope's  les- 
sons stopped  — 

As  the  weeks  lengthened  into  months,  bits 
of  harmony  and  snatches  of  melody  became 
more  and  more  frequent  in  Penelope's  lessons, 
and  the  "exercises"  were  supplemented  by 
occasional  "pieces"  —  simple,  yet  boasting  a 
name.  But  when  Penelope  played  "Down  by 
the  Mill,"  one  heard  only  the  notes  —  accu- 
rate, rhythmic,  an  excellent  imitation;  when 
Hester  played  it,  one  might  catch  the  whir  of 
the  wheel,  the  swish  of  the  foaming  brook,  and 
almost  the  spicy  smell  of  the  sawdust,  so 
vividly  was  the  scene  brought  to  mind. 


The  Tangled  Threads 

Many  a  time,  now,  the  old  childhood  dreams 
came  back  to  Hester,  and  her  fingers  would 
drift  into  tender  melodies  and  minor  chords 
not  on  the  printed  page,  until  all  the  stifled 
love  and  longing  of  those  dreary,  colorless 
years  of  the  past  found  voice  at  her  finger-tips. 

The  stately  marches  and  the  rollicking 
dances  of  the  cloud  music  came  easily  at  her 
beck  and  call  —  now  grave,  now  gay;  now  slow 
and  measured,  now  tripping  in  weird  harmo- 
nies and  gay  melodies. 

Hester's  blood  quickened  and  her  cheeks 
grew  pink.  Her  eyes  lost  their  yearning  look 
and  her  lips  their  wistful  curves. 

Every  week  she  faithfully  took  her  lesson  of 
Penelope,  and  she  practiced  only  that  when 
the  children  were  about.  It  was  when  they 
were  at  school  and  she  was  alone  that  the  great 
joy  of  this  new-found  treasure  of  improvising 
came  to  her,  and  she  could  set  free  her  heart 
and  soul  on  the  ivory  keys. 

She  was  playing  thus  one  night  —  forgetting 
time,  self,  and  that  Penelope  would  soon  be 
home  from  school  —  when  the  child  entered 
the  house  and  stopped,  amazed,  in  the  parlor 


A  Delayed  Heritage 

doorway.  As  the  last  mellow  note  died  into 
silence,  Penelope  dropped  her  books  and  burst 
into  tears. 

"Why,  darling,  what  is  it?"  cried  Hester. 
"What  can  be  the  matter?" 

"I  —  I  don't  know,"  faltered  Penelope, 
looking  at  her  mother  with  startled  eyes.  "Why 
—  why  did  n't  you  tell  me?" 

"Tell  you?" 

"That  —  that  you  could  —  p-play  that  way ! 
I  —  I  did  n't  know,"  she  wailed  with  another 
storm  of  sobs,  rushing  into  her  mother's  arms. 

Hester's  clasp  tightened  about  the  quivering 
little  form  and  her  eyes  grew  luminous. 

"Dearie,"  she  began  very  softly,  "there  was 
once  a  little  girl  —  a  little  girl  like  you.  She 
was  very,  very  poor,  and  all  her  days  were  full 
of  work.  She  had  no  piano,  no  music  lessons  — 
but,  oh,  how  she  longed  for  them!  The  trees 
and  the  grass  and  the  winds  and  the  flowers 
sang  all  day  in  her  ears,  but  she  could  n't  tell 
what  they  said.  By  and  by,  after  many,  many 
years,  this  little  girl  grew  up  and  a  dear  little 
baby  daughter  came  to  her.  She  was  still  very, 
very  poor,  but  she  saved  and  scrimped,  and 


The  Tangled  Threads 

scrimped  and  saved,  for  she  meant  that  this 
baby  girl  should  not  long  and  long  for  the  music 
that  never  came.  She  should  have  music  les- 


sons." 


"Was  it  —  me?"  whispered  Penelope,  with 
tremulous  lips. 

Hester  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Yes,  dear.  I  was  the  little  girl  long  ago, 
and  you  are  the  little  girl  of  to-day.  And  when 
the  piano  came,  Penelope,  I  found  in  it  all 
those  songs  that  the  winds  and  the  trees  used 
to  sing  to  me.  Now  the  sun  shines  brighter  and 
the  birds  sing  sweeter  —  and  all  this  beautiful 
world  is  yours  —  all  yours.  Oh,  Penelope, 
are  n't  you  glad?" 

Penelope  raised  a  tear-wet  face  and  looked 
into  her  mother's  shining  eyes. 

"Glad?  —  oh,  mother!"  she  cried  fervently. 
Then  very  softly,  "Mother  —  do  you  think  — 
could  you  teach  me? —  Oh,  I  want  to  play 
just  like  that  —  just  like  that!" 


The  Folly  of  Wisdom 

UNTIL  his  fiftieth  year  Jason  Hartsorn 
knew  nothing  whatever  about  the  posi- 
tion of  his  liver,  kidneys,  lungs,  heart,  spleen, 
and  stomach  except  that  they  must  be  some- 
where inside  of  him;  then  he  attended  the  auc- 
tion of  old  Doctor  Hemenway's  household 
effects  and  bid  off  for  twenty-five  cents  a  dilapi- 
dated clothes  basket  filled  with  books  and 
pamphlets.  Jason's  education  as  to  his  anat- 
omy began  almost  at  once  then,  for  on  the  way 
home  he  fished  out  a  coverless  volume  from 
the  basket  and  became  lost  in  awed  wonder 
over  a  pictured  human  form  covered  from 
scalp  to  the  toes  with  scarlet,  vine-like  trac- 
ings. 

"For  the  land's  sake,  Jason!"  ejaculated 
Mrs.  Hartsorn,  as  her  husband  came  puffing 
into  the  kitchen  with  his  burden  an  hour  later. 
"Now,  what  trash  have  you  been  buyin'?" 

"'Trash'!"  panted  Jason,  carefully  setting 
the  basket  down.  "I  guess  you  won't  call  it 


r 


The  Tangled  Threads 

no  *  trash'  when  you  see  what 't  is!  It's  books 
—  learnin',  Hitty.  I  been  readin'  one  of  'em, 
too.  Look  a-here,"  and  he  pulled  up  his  shirt 
sleeve  and  bared  a  brawny  arm;  "that's  all 
full  of  teeny  little  pipes  an'  cords.  Why,  if  I 
could  only  skin  it — " 

"Jason!"  screamed  his  wife,  backing  away. 

"Pooh!  ' T  ain't  nothin'  to  fret  over,"  re- 
torted Jason  airily.  "Besides,  you've  got  'em 
too  —  ev'ry  one  has;  see!"  He  finished  by 
snatching  up  the  book  and  spreading  before 
her  horrified  eyes  the  pictured  figure  with  its 
scarlet,  vine-like  tracings. 

"Oh-h!"  shivered  the  woman,  and  fled  from 
the  room. 

Shivers  and  shudders  became  almost  second 
nature  to  Mehitable  Hartsorn  during  the  days 
that  followed.  The  highly  colored,  carefully 
explained  illustrations  of  the  kidneys,  liver, 
heart,  and  lungs  which  the  books  displayed 
were  to  her  only  a  little  less  terrifying  than  the 
thought  that  her  own  body  contained  the  fear- 
some things  in  reality;  while  to  her  husband 
these  same  illustrations  were  but  the  delightful 
means  to  a  still  more  delightful  end  —  finding 


"WHY.  IF  I  COULD  ONLY  SKIN  IT" 


The  Folly  of  Wisdom 

in  his  own  sturdy  frame  the  position  of  every 
organ  shown. 

For  a  month  Jason  was  happy.  Then  it  was 
suddenly  borne  in  upon  him  that  not  always 
were  these  fascinating  new  acquaintances  of 
his  in  a  healthy  condition.  At  once  he  began 
to  pinch  and  pummel  himself,  and  to  watch  for 
pains,  being  careful,  meanwhile,  to  study  the 
books  unceasingly,  so  that  he  might  know  just 
where  to  look  for  the  pains  when  they  should 
come.  He  counted  his  pulse  daily  —  hourly, 
if  he  apprehended  trouble;  and  his  tongue  he 
examined  critically  every  morning,  being  par- 
ticular to  notice  whether  or  not  it  were  pale, 
moist,  coated,  red,  raw,  cracked,  or  tremulous. 

Jason  was  not  at  all  well  that  spring.  He 
was  threatened  successively  with  typhoid  fever, 
appendicitis,  consumption,  and  cholera,  and 
only  escaped  a  serious  illness  in  each  case  by 
the  prompt  application  of  remedies  prescribed 
in  his  books.  His  wife  ran  the  whole  gamut 
of  emotions  from  terror,  worry,  and  sympathy 
down  to  indifference  and  good-natured  toler- 
ance, reaching  the  last  only  after  the  repeated 
failure  of  Jason's  diseases  to  materialize. 


The  Tangled  Threads 

It  was  about  a  week  after  Jason  had  merci- 
fully escaped  an  attack  of  the  cholera  that  he 
came  into  the  kitchen  one  morning  and  dropped 
heavily  into  the  nearest  chair. 

"I  tell  ye,  my  heart  ain't  right,"  he  an- 
nounced to  his  wife.  "It's  goin'  jest  like  Jehu 
—  'palpitation,'  they  call  it;  an'  I've  got 
'shortness  of  breath,'  too,"  he  finished  trium- 
phantly. 

"Hm-m;  did  ye  catch  her  at  last?"  asked 
Mehitable  with  mild  interest. 

Jason  looked  up  sharply. 

"  'Catch  her'!  Catch  who?"  he  demanded. 

"Why,  the  colt,  of  course!  How  long  did  ye 
have  ter  chase  her?"  Mrs.  Hartsorn's  care- 
fully modulated  voice  expressed  curiosity,  and 
that  was  all. 

Jason  flushed  angrily. 

"Oh,  I  know  what  ye  mean,"  he  snapped. 
"Ye  think  thar  don't  nothin'  ail  me,  an'  that 
jest  fetchin'  Dolly  from  the  pasture  did  it  all. 
But  I  know  what  them  symptoms  means;  they 
mean  heart  disease,  woman,  —  'cardiac  fail- 
ure,'—  that's  what 't  is."  Jason  leaned  back 
in  his  chair  and  drew  a  long  breath.  When  he 

20 


The  Folly  of  Wisdom 

could  remember  his  "  book-lea rnin'  "  and  give 
a  high-sounding  name  to  his  complaint,  his 
gratification  was  enhanced. 

"Hm-m;  mebbe  't  is,  Jason,"  retorted  his 
wife;  "but  I'm  a-thinkin'  that  when  a  man  of 
your  heft  and  years  goes  kitin'  'round  a  ten- 
acre  lot  at  the  tail  of  a  fly-away  colt,  he'll  have 
all  that  kind  of  heart  disease  he  wants,  an'  still 
live  ter  die  of  somethin'  else!"  And  Mehitable 
cheerfully  banged  the  oven  door  after  making 
sure  that  her  biscuits  were  not  getting  too 
brown. 

As  it  happened,  however,  there  was  really 
no  chance  for  Jason's  heart  disease  to  develop, 
for  that  night  he  scratched  his  finger,  which 
brought  about  the  much  more  imminent  dan- 
ger of  blood-poisoning — "toxemia,"  Jason  said 
it  was.  For  a  time  the  whole  household  was 
upset,  and  Mehitable  was  kept  trotting  from 
morning  till  night  with  sponges,  cloths,  cot- 
ton, and  bowls  of  curious-smelling  liquids, 
while  Jason  discoursed  on  antiseptics,  germs, 
bacteria,  microbes,  and  bacilli. 

The  finger  was  nearly  well  when  he  suddenly 
discovered  that,  after  all,  the  trouble  might 

21 


The  Tangled  Threads 

have  been  lock-jaw  instead  of  blood-poisoning. 
He  at  once  began  studying  the  subject  so  that 
he  might  be  prepared  should  the  thing  occur 
again.  He  was  glad,  later,  that  he  had  done  so, 
for  the  Fourth  of  July  and  a  toy  pistol  brought 
all  his  recently  acquired  knowledge  into  instant 
requisition. 

"If  it  does  come,  it's  'most  likely  ter  be 
fatal,"  he  said  excitedly  to  his  wife,  who  was 
calmly  bathing  a  slight  graze  on  his  hand. 
"An*  ye  want  ter  watch  me,"  he  added, 
catching  up  a  book  with  his  uninjured  hand 
and  turning  to  a  much-thumbed  page  for  refer- 
ence. "Now,  listen.  Thar's  diff'rent  kinds  of 
it.  They're  all  cte-ta-nus,'  but  ye  got  to  watch 
out  ter  find  out  which  kind  't  is.  If  I  shut  my 
jaws  up  tight,  it's  l lock-jaw.'  If  I  bend  back- 
wards, it's  'o-pis-tho-to-nos.'  If  I  bend  for- 
wards, it's  c em-pros-tho-to-nos ' ;  an'  if  I  bend 
ter  one  side,  it's  'pleu-ro-tho-to-nos,'"  he  ex- 
plained, pronouncing  the  long  words  after  a 
fashion  of  his  own.  "Now,  remember,"  he 
finished.  "Like  enough  I  shan't  know  enough 
ter  tell  which  kind  't  is  myself,  nor  which  way 
I  am  a-leanin'." 

22 


The  Folly  of  Wisdom 

"No,  of  course  not,  dear,"  agreed  Mehitable 
cheerfully;  "an*  I'll  remember,"  she  promised, 
as  she  trotted  away  with  her  salves  and  bowls 
and  bandages. 

For  some  days  Jason  "tried"  his  jaw  at 
regular  intervals,  coming  to  the  conclusion  at 
last  that  fate  once  more  was  kind,  and  that 
"te-ta-nus"  was  to  pass  him  by. 

The  summer  ended  and  autumn  came.  Jason 
was  glad  that  the  cold  weather  was  approach- 
ing. The  heat  had  been  trying.  He  had  almost 
suffered  a  sunstroke,  and  twice  a  mosquito 
bite  had  given  him  much  trouble  —  he  had 
feared  that  he  would  die  of  malignant  pustule. 
His  relief  at  the  coming  of  cool  weather  was 
short-lived,  however,  for  one  of  the  neighbor- 
ing towns  developed  a  smallpox  scare,  and  as 
he  discovered  a  slight  rash  soon  after  passing 
through  the  place,  he  thought  best  to  submit 
to  vaccination.  He  caught  a  bad  cold,  too, 
and  was  sure  pneumonia  was  setting  in  —  that 
is,  he  would  have  been  sure,  only  his  throat 
was  so  sore  that  he  could  not  help  thinking  it 
might  be  diphtheria. 

Realizing  the  seriousness  of  the  situation, 

23 


The  Tangled  Threads 

and  determining  to  settle  once  for  all  the  vexed 
question,  he  pored  over  his  books  in  an  exhaus- 
tive search  for  symptoms.  It  was  then  that  he 
rushed  into  the  presence  of  his  wife  one  morn- 
ing, his  face  drawn,  his  eyes  wildly  staring,  and 
an  open  book  in  his  shaking  hand. 

"Hitty,  Hitty,"  he  cried;  "jest  listen  ter 
this!  How  'm  I  goin'  ter  tell  what  ails  me,  I 
should  like  ter  know,  if  I  don't  ache  where 
I'm  sick?  Why,  Hitty,  I  can't  never  tell!  Jest 
listen : 

The  location  of  pain  is  not  always  at  the  seat 
of  disease.  In  hip  disease  the  pain  is  not  first  felt 
in  the  hip,  but  in  the  knee-joint.  In  chronic  in- 
flammation of  the  liver  the  pain  is  generally  most 
severe  in  the  right  shoulder  and  arm. 

"Only  think,  Hitty,  'In  the  right  shoulder 
and  arm'!  Why,  I  had  a  pain  right  in  that 
spot  only  yesterday.  So  that's  what  I've  got 
—  ' hip-disease'!  an'  —  oh,  no,"  he  broke  off 
suddenly,  consulting  his  book,  *  't  ain't  hip- 
disease  when  the  shoulder  aches  —  it's  the 
liver,  then." 

"Well,  well,  Jason,  I  don't  think  I  should 
fret,"  soothed  Mehitable.  "If  ye  don't  know, 

24 


The  Folly  of  Wisdom 

where 's  the  difference?  Now  I've  got  a  pain 
right  now  in  my  little  toe.  Like  enough  that 
means  I'm  comin'  down  with  the  mumps;  eh?" 

"Hitty!"  Jason's  voice  was  agonized.  He 
had  been  paying  no  attention  to  his  wife's 
words,  but  had  been  reading  on  down  the 
page.  "Hitty,  listen!  It  says  —  'Absence  of 
pain  in  any  disease  where  ordinarily  it  should 
be  present  is  an  unfavorable  sign.'  An',  Hitty, 
I  hain't  got  an  ache  —  not  a  single  ache,  this 
minute!" 

There  was  no  possibility  of  quieting  Jason 
after  that,  and  the  days  that  followed  were 
hard  for  all  concerned.  If  he  had  an  ache  he 
was  terrified;  if  he  did  not  have  one,  he  was 
more  so.  He  began,  also,  to  distrust  his  own 
powers  of  diagnosis,  and  to  study  all  the 
patent  medicine  advertisements  he  could  lay 
his  hands  on.  He  was  half  comforted,  half 
appalled,  to  read  them.  Far  from  being  able 
to  pick  out  his  own  particular  malady  from 
among  the  lot,  he  was  forced  to  admit  that  as 
near  as  he  could  make  out  he  had  one  or  more 
symptoms  of  each  and  every  disease  that  was 
mentioned. 

25 


The  Tangled  Threads 

"Now,  Hitty,  I'll  leave  it  to  you,"  he  sub- 
mitted plaintively.  "Here's  'Dread  of  im- 
pending evil.'  Now  I've  got  that,  sure;  ye 
know  I'm  always  thinkin'  somethin'  dread- 
ful's goin'  ter  happen.  'Sparks  before  the 
eyes.'  There!  I  had  them  only  jest  ter-day. 
I  was  sweepin'  out  the  barn,  an'  I  see  'em 
hoppin'  up  an'  down  in  a  streak  of  sunshine 
that  come  through  a  crack.  'Variable  appe- 
tite.' Now,  Hitty,  don't  ye  remember?  Yes- 
terday I  wanted  pie  awful,  an'  I  ate  a  whole 
one;  well,  this  mornin'  seems  as  if  I  never 
wanted  ter  see  an  apple  pie  again.  Now,  if  that 
ain't  'variable,'  I  don't  know  what  is.  'In- 
quietude.' ' 

"Humph!  You've  got  that  all  right,"  cut 
in  Mehitable. 

"  'Weakness.'  I  hain't  got  a  mite  o'  strength, 
Hitty,"  he  complained.  "An'  thar  's  dizziness, 
too,  —  I  can't  chase  the  calf  three  times  round 
the  barnyard  but  what  my  head  is  jest  swim- 
min'!  An'  Hitty,"  —  his  voice  grew  impres- 
sive,—  "Hitty,  I've  got  ev'ry  one  of  them 
six  symptoms,  ev'ry  blamed  one  of  'em,  an'  I 
picked  'em  out  of  six  difPrent  advertisements 

26 


The  Folly  of  Wisdom 

—  six !  Now,  Hitty,  which  disease  is  it  I  Ve 
got?  That's  what  I  want  ter  know  —  which?" 

His  wife  could  not  tell  him;  in  fact,  no  one 
could  tell  him,  and  in  sheer  desperation  Jason 
answered  all  six  of  the  advertisements,  deter- 
mined to  find  out  for  a  certainty  what  ailed 
him. 

In  due  course  the  answers  came.  Jason  read 
one,  then  another,  then  another,  until  the 
contents  of  the  entire  six  had  been  mastered. 
Then  ,he  raised  his  head  and  gazed  straight 
into  his  wife's  eyes. 

"Hitty,"  he  gasped.  "I've  got  'em  all!  An' 
I've  got  ter  take  the  whole  six  medicines  ter 
cure  me!" 

Even  Mehitable  was  stirred  then.  For  one 
long  minute  she  was  silent,  then  she  squared 
her  shoulders,  and  placed  her  hands  on  her 
hips. 

"Jason  Hartsorn,"  she  began  determinedly, 
"this  thing  has  gone  jest  as  fur  as  I'm  goin'  to 
stand  it.  Do  you  bundle  yourself  off  ter  Bos- 
ton an'  hunt  up  the  biggest  doctor  you  can 
find.  If  he  says  somethin'  ails  ye,  I'll  believe 
him,  an'  nuss  ye  ter  the  best  of  my  ability;  but 

27 


The  Tangled  Threads 

as  fur  nussin'  ye  through  six  things  —  an* 
them  all  ter  once  —  I  won't!  So  there." 

Twenty-four  hours  later  Jason  faced  a 
square-jawed,  smooth-shaven  man  who  looked 
sharply  into  his  eyes  with  a  curt,  "Well,  sir?" 

Jason  cleared  his  throat. 

"Well,  ye  see,  doctor,"  he  began,  "some- 
thin*  ails  me,  an'  I  ain't  quite  sure  what  't  is. 
I  Ve  been  poorly  since  last  spring,  but  it 's 
been  kind  of  puzzlin'.  Now,  fur  instance :  I  had 
a  pain  in  my  knee,  so  I  felt  sure  'twas  hip- 
disease,  but  it  jumped  ter  my  shoulder,  so 
'course  then  I  knew  't  was  my  liver." 

The  doctor  made  a  sudden  movement.  He 
swung  squarely  around  in  his  office  chair  and 
faced  Jason. 

Jason  was  pleased  —  his  learning  had  al- 
ready made  an  impression !  He  raised  his  chin 
and  went  on  with  renewed  confidence. 

"Ye  see  I  was  afraid  my  liver,  or  mebbe  one 
o'  my  kidneys,  was  hardenin'  or  floatin'  round 
loose,  or  doin'  somethin'  else  they  had  n't  orter. 
Lately,  thar's  been  days,  lots  of  'em,  when  I 
hain't  had  no  pain  —  not  a  mite,  an'  'course 
that's  the  worst  symptom  of  all.  Then  some- 

28 


The  Folly  of  Wisdom 

times  thar's  been  such  shootin'  pains  that  I 
kind  o'  worried  fur  fear  't  was  locomotive 
ataxia ;  but  mebbe  the  very  next  day  it  would 
change  so's  I  did  n't  know  but  'twas  appen- 
dicitis, an'  that  my  vermi-er-vermicelli  appen- 
dix was  the  trouble." 

The  doctor  coughed  —  he  not  only  coughed, 
but  he  choked,  so  that  Jason  had  to  pause  for  a 
moment;  but  it  was  only  for  a  moment. 

"  I  'most  had  diphtheria,  an'  pneumonia,  an* 
smallpox  this  fall,"  he  resumed  complacently; 
"an'  thar's  six  other  diseases  that  I  got  symp- 
toms of  —  that  is,  partly,  you  know:  —  *  Vari- 
able appetite,'  an'  *  Inquietude,'  an'  all  that." 

"Hm-m,"  said  the  doctor,  slowly,  his  eyes 
averted.  "Well,  we'll  —  make  an  examina- 
tion. Come  in  here,  please,"  he  added,  leading 
the  way  to  an  inner  room. 

"Gorry!"  ejaculated  Jason  some  minutes 
later,  when  he  was  once  more  back  in  his  chair, 
"  I  should  think  you  might  know  what  ails  me 
now  —  after  all  that  thumpin'  an'  poundin' 
an'  listenin'!" 

"I  do,"  said  the  doctor. 

"Well,  't  ain't  — six  of  'em;  is  it?"   There 
29 


The  Tangled  Threads 

was  mingled  hope  and  fear  in  Jason's  voice.  If 
it  were  six  —  he  could  see  Kitty's  face ! 

"Any  physicians  in  your  family?"  asked  the 
doctor,  ignoring  Jason's  question. 

Jason  shook  his  head. 

"Hm-m,"  commented  the  doctor.    "Ever 
been  any?" 

"Why,  not  as  I  know  of,  sir,"  murmured 
Jason  wonderingly. 

"No?  Where  did  you  get  them,  then, — 
those  medical  books?" 

Jason  stared. 

"Why,  how  in  thunder  did  you  know  — "  he 
began. 

But  the  doctor  interrupted  him. 

"Never  mind  that.  You  have  them,  have 
n't  you?" 

"Why,  yes;  I  bought  'em  at  an  auction.  I 
bought  'em  last — " 

"Spring  —  eh?"  supplied  the  doctor. 

Jason's  mouth  fell  open. 

"Never  mind,"  laughed  the  doctor  again, 
his  hand  upraised.  "Now  to  business!"  And 
his  face  grew  suddenly  grave.  "You're  in  a 
bad  way,  my  friend." 

30 


The  Folly  of  Wisdom 

"B-bad  way?"  stammered  Jason.  "It  —  it 
is  n't  six  that  ails  me?" 

It  was  all  fear  this  time  in  Jason's  voice;  some 
way  the  doctor's  face  had  carried  conviction. 

"No;  you  are  threatened  with  more  than 


six." 


"Wha-at?"  Jason  almost  sprang  from  his 
seat.  "  But,  doctor,  they  ain't  —  dangerous ! " 

"But  they  are,  very!" 

"All  of  them?  Why,  doctor,  how  —  how 
many  are  thar?" 

The  doctor  shook  his  head. 

"I  could  not  count  them,"  he  replied,  not 
meeting  Jason's  eyes. 

"Oh-h!"  gasped  Jason,  and  shook  in  his 
shoes.  There  was  a  long  silence.  "An'  will  I 
—  die?"  he  almost  whispered. 

"We  all  must  —  sometime,"  returned  the 
doctor,  slowly,  as  if  weighing  his  words;  "but 
you  will  die  long  before  your  time  —  unless 
you  do  one  thing." 

"I'll  do  it,  doctor,  I'll  do  it  —  if  I  have  ter 
mortgage  the  farm,"  chattered  Jason  frenziedly. 
"I'll  do  anythin'  —  anythin';  only  tell  me 
what  it  is." 


The  Tangled  Threads 

"I  will  tell  you,"  declared  the  doctor  briskly, 
with  a  sudden  change  of  manner,  whisking 
about  in  his  chair.  "Go  home  and  burn  those 
medical  books  —  every  single  one  of  them." 

"Burn  them!  Why,  doctor,  them's  the  very 
things  that  made  me  know  I  was  sick.  I 
should  n't  'a'  come  ter  you  at  all  if  it  had  n't 
been  fur  them." 

"Exactly!"  agreed  the  doctor,  rubbing  his 
hands  together.  "That's  just  what  I  thought. 
You  were  well  before,  were  n't  you?" 

"Why,  yes,  —  that  is,  I  did  n't  know  I  was 
sick,"  corrected  Jason. 

"Hm-m;  well,  you  won't  know  it  now  if 
you'll  go  home  and  burn  those  books.  If  you 
don't  burn  them  you'll  have  every  disease 
there  is  in  them,  and  some  one  of  them  will  be 
the  death  of  you.  As  it  is  now,  you're  a  well 
man,  but  I  would  n't  trust  one  organ  of  your 
anatomy  within  a  rod  of  those  books  an  hour 
longer!" 

He  said  more  —  much  more;  and  that  his 
words  were  not  without  effect  was  shown  no 
later  than  that  same  evening  when  Jason  burst 
into  the  kitchen  at  home. 

32 


The  Folly  of  Wisdom 

"Hitty,  Hitty,  thar  ain't  six,  thar  ain't  one, 
thar  ain't  nothin'  that  ails  me,"  he  cried  jubi- 
lantly, still  under  the  sway  of  the  joy  that  had 
been  his  when  the  great  doctor  had  told  him 
there  was  yet  one  chance  for  his  life.  "Thar 
ain't  a  single  thing!" 

"Well,  now,  ain't  that  nice?"  murmured 
Hitty,  as  she  drew  up  the  chairs.  "Come, 
Jason,  supper's  ready." 

"An'  Hitty,  I'm  goin'  ter  burn  'em  up  — 
them  books  of  Hemenway's,"  continued  Jason 
confidentially.  "They  ain't  very  good  readin', 
after  all,  an'  like  enough  they're  kind  of  out  of 
date,  bein'  so  old.  I  guess  I'll  go  fetch  'em 
now,"  he  added  as  he  left  the  room.  "Why, 
Hitty,  they're  —  gone  I"  he  cried  a  minute 
later  from  the  doorway. 

"Gone?  Books?"  repeated  Mehitable  inno- 
cently. "Oh,  yes,  I  remember  now.  I  must  'a' 
burned  'em  this  mornin'.  Ye  see,  they  clut- 
tered up  so.  Come,  Jason,  set  down." 

And  Jason  sat  down.  But  all  the  evening  he 
wondered.  "Was  it  possible,  after  all,  that 
Hitty  —  knew?" 


Crumbs 

The  Story  of  a  Discontented  Woman 

THE  floor  was  untidy,  the  sink  full  of  dirty 
dishes,  and  the  stove  a  variegated  thing 
of  gray  and  dull  red.  At  the  table,  head  bowed 
on  outstretched  arms,  was  Kate  Merton, 
twenty-one,  discouraged,  and  sole  mistress  of 
the  kitchen  in  which  she  sat.  The  pleasant- 
faced,  slender  little  woman  in  the  doorway 
paused  irresolutely  on  the  threshold,  then 
walked  with  a  brisk  step  into  the  room. 

"Is  the  water  hot?"  she  asked  cheerily. 

The  girl  at  the  table  came  instantly  to  her 
feet. 

"Aunt  Ellen!"  she  cried,  aghast. 

"Oh,  yes,  it's  lovely,"  murmured  the  lady, 
peering  into  the  copper  boiler  on  the  stove. 

"But,  auntie,  you  —  I"  —  the  girl  paused 
helplessly. 

"Let's  see,  are  these  the  wipers?"  pursued 
Mrs.  Rowland,  her  hand  on  one  of  the  towels 
hanging  behind  the  stove. 

34 


Crumbs 

Kate's  face  hardened. 

"Thank  you,  Aunt  Ellen.  You  are  very 
kind,  but  I  can  do  quite  well  by  myself.  You 
will  please  go  into  the  living-room.  I  don't 
allow  company  to  do  kitchen  work." 

"Of  course  not!"  acquiesced  Mrs.  Rowland 
imperturbably.  "But  your  father's  sister  is  n't 
company,  you  know.  Let's  see,  you  put  your 
clean  dishes  here?" 

"But,  Aunt  Ellen,  you  must  n't,"  protested 
Kate.  "At  home  you  do  nothing  —  nothing 
all  day."  A  curious  expression  came  into  Mrs. 
Rowland's  face,  but  Kate  Merton  did  not  seem 
to  notice.  "You  have  servants  to  do  every- 
thing, even  to  dressing  you.  No,  you  can't 
wipe  my  dishes." 

For  a  long  minute  there  was  silence  in  the 
kitchen.  Mrs.  Rowland,  wiper  in  hand,  stood 
looking  out  the  window.  Her  lips  parted, 
then  closed  again.  When  she  finally  turned  and 
spoke,  the  old  smile  had  come  back  to  her  face. 

"Then  if  that  is  the  case,  it  will  be  all  the 
more  change  for  me  to  do  something,"  she 
said  pleasantly.  "  I  want  to  do  them,  Kate.  It 
will  be  a  pleasure  to  me." 

35 


The  Tangled  Threads 

"Pleasure!" 

Mrs.  Rowland's  clear  laugh  rang  through 
the  kitchen  at  the  scorn  expressed  in  the  one 
word. 

"And  is  it  so  bad  as  that?"  she  demanded 
merrily. 

"Worse!"  snapped  Kate.  "I  simply  loathe 
dishes!"  But  a  shamed  smile  came  to  her  lips, 
and  she  got  the  pans  and  water,  making  no 
further  objection. 

"I  like  pretty  dishes,"  observed  Mrs.  How- 
land,  after  a  time,  breaking  a  long  silence. 
"There's  a  certain  satisfaction  in  restoring 
them  to  their  shelves  in  all  their  dainty,  pol- 
ished beauty." 

"I  should  like  them  just  as  well  if  they 
always  stayed  there,  and  did  n't  come  down 
to  get  all  crumbs  and  grease  in  the  sink," 
returned  the  other  tartly. 

"Oh,  of  course,"  agreed  Mrs.  Rowland, 
with  a  smile;  "but,  as  long  as  they  don't, 
why,  we  might  as  well  take  what  satis- 
faction there  is  in  putting  them  in  shape 
again." 

"Don't  see  it  —  the  satisfaction,"  retorted 

36 


Crumbs 

Kate,  and  her  aunt  dropped  the  subject  where 
it  was. 

The  dishes  finished  and  the  kitchen  put  to 
rights,  the  two  women  started  for  the  cham- 
bers and  the  bed-making.  Kate's  protests  were 
airily  waved  aside  by  the  energetic  little 
woman  who  promptly  went  to  pillow-beating 
and  mattress-turning. 

"How  fresh  and  sweet  the  air  smells!" 
cried  Mrs.  Howland,  sniffing  at  the  open  win- 
dow. 

"Lilacs,"  explained  Kate  concisely. 

"Hm-m  — lovely!" 

"Think  so?  I  don't  care  for  the  odor  my- 
self," rejoined  Kate. 

The  other  shot  a  quick  look  from  under 
lowered  lids.  Kate's  face  expressed  mere  in- 
difference. The  girl  evidently  had  not  meant 
to  be  rude. 

"You  don't  like  them?"  cried  Mrs.  How- 
land.  "Oh,  I  do!  My  dear,  you  don't  half 
appreciate  what  it  is  to  have  such  air  to  breathe. 
Only  think,  if  you  were  shut  up  in  a  brick 
house  on  a  narrow  street  as  I  am!" 

"Think!"  retorted  Kate,  with  sudden  heat. 
37 


The  Tangled  Threads 

"  I  'd  like  to  do  something  besides  '  think ' !  I  'd 
like  to  try  it!" 

"You  mean  you'd  like  to  leave  here?  —  to 
go  to  the  city?" 

"I  do,  certainly.  Aunt  Ellen,  I  'm  simply  sick 
of  chicken-feeding  and  meal-getting.  Why,  if 
it  was  n't  for  keeping  house  for  father  I  'd  have 
been  off  to  New  York  or  Boston  years  ago ! " 

"But  your  home  —  your  friends !" 

"  Commonplace  —  uninteresting ! "  declared 
Kate,  disposing  of  both  with  a  wave  of  her  two 
hands.  "The  one  means  endless  sweeping  and 
baking;  the  other  means  sewing  societies,  and 
silly  gossip  over  clothes,  beaux,  and  crops." 

Mrs.  Howland  laughed,  though  she  sobered 
instantly. 

"But  there  must  be  something,  some  one 
that  you  enjoy,"  she  suggested. 

Kate  shook  her  head  wearily. 

"Not  a  thing,  not  a  person,"  she  replied; 
adding  with  a  whimsical  twinkle,  "they're  all 
like  the  dishes,  Aunt  Ellen,  —  bound  to  accu- 
mulate crumbs  and  scraps,  and  do  nothing  but 
clutter  up." 

"Oh,  Kate,  Kate,"  remonstrated  Mrs.  How- 

38 


Crumbs 

land,  "what  an  incorrigible  girl  you  are!"  As 
she  spoke  her  lips  smiled,  but  her  eyes  did  not 
—  there  was  a  wistful  light  in  their  blue  depths 
that  persistently  stayed  there  all  through  the 
day  as  she  watched  her  niece. 

At  ten,  and  again  at  half-past,  some  neigh- 
bors dropped  in.  After  they  had  gone  Kate 
complained  because  the  forenoon  was  so  broken 
up.  The  next  few  hours  were  free  from  callers, 
and  at  the  supper  table  Kate  grumbled  be- 
cause the  afternoon  was  so  stupid  and  lone- 
some. When  Mr.  Merton  came  in  bringing  no 
mail,  Kate  exclaimed  that  nobody  ever  an- 
swered her  letters,  and  that  she  might  just  as 
well  not  write;  yet  when  the  next  day  brought 
three,  she  sighed  over  the  time  "wasted  in 
reading  such  long  letters." 

The  week  sped  swiftly  and  Sunday  night 
came.  Mrs.  Rowland's  visit  was  all  but  fin- 
ished. She  was  going  early  the  next  morning. 

Sunday  had  not  been  an  unalloyed  joy.  Mrs. 
Rowland  and  her  niece  had  attended  church, 
but  to  Kate  the  sermon  was  too  long,  and  the 
singing  too  loud.  The  girl  mentioned  both  in  a 
listless  way,  at  the  same  time  saying  that  it 

39 


The  Tangled  Threads 

was  always  like  that  except  when  the  sermon 
was  interesting,  then  it  was  too  short  and  the 
choir  took  up  all  the  time  there  was  with  their 
tiresome  singing. 

Dinner  had  been  long  in  preparation,  and, 
in  spite  of  Mrs.  Rowland's  gladly  given  assist- 
ance, the  dish-washing  and  the  kitchen-tidy- 
ing had  been  longer  still.  All  day  Kate's  step 
had  been  more  than  lagging,  and  her  face  more 
than  discontented.  In  the  twilight,  as  the  two 
women  sat  together,  Mrs.  Rowland  laid  hold 
of  her  courage  with  both  hands  and  spoke. 

"Kate,  dear,  is  n't  there  something,  any- 
thing, worth  while  to  you?" 

"Nothing,  auntie.  I  feel  simply  buried 
alive." 

"But  can't  you  think  of  anything  — " 

"Think  of  anything!"  interrupted  the  girl 
swiftly.  "Of  course  I  can!  If  I  had  money  — 
or  lived  somewhere  else  —  or  could  go  some- 
where, or  see  something  once  in  a  while,  it 
would  be  different;  but  here — !" 

Mrs.  Rowland  shook  her  head. 

"But  it  would  n't  be  different,  my  dear,"  she 
demurred. 

40 


Crumbs 

"Why,  of  course  it  would!"  laughed  Kate 
bitterly.  "It  could  n't  help  it." 

Again  Mrs.  Rowland  shook  her  head.  Then 
a  whimsical  smile  crossed  her  face. 

"Kate,"  she  said,  "there  are  crumbs  on  the 
plates  out  in  the  world  just  the  same  as  there 
are  here;  and  if  here  you  teach  yourself  to  see 
nothing  but  crumbs,  you  will  see  nothing  but 
crumbs  out  there.  In  short,  dissatisfaction  with 
everyday  living  is  the  same  joy-killer  whether 
in  town  or  city,  farmhouse  or  palace.  Oh,  I  'm 
preaching,  I  know,  dear,"  went  on  Mrs.  How- 
land  hurriedly,  as  she  saw  the  angry  light  in  the 
other's  eyes,  "but  —  I  had  to  speak  —  you 
don't  know  how  it 's  growing  on  you.  Come, 
let's  kiss  and  make  up;  then  think  it  over." 

Kate  frowned,  then  laughed  constrainedly. 

"Don't  worry,  aunt,"  she  replied,  rising,  and 
just  touching  her  aunt's  lips  with  her  own.  "I 
still  think  it  would  be  different  out  there;  but 
- 1  suppose  you  '11  always  remain  uncon- 
vinced, for  I  shall  never  have  the  chance  to 
prove  it.  My  plates  won't  belong  anywhere 
but  in  Hopkinsville  cupboards!  Come,  will 
you  play  to  me?" 

41 


The  Tangled  Threads 

When  Mrs.  Rowland  returned  from  Eng- 
land, one  of  the  first  letters  she  received  after 
reaching  home  was  a  cordial  invitation  from 
her  dead  brother's  daughter,  Kate,  to  visit 
her. 

In  the  last  five  years  Mrs.  Rowland  had 
seen  her  niece  but  once.  That  was  during  the 
sad,  hurried  days  just  following  Mr.  Merton's 
sudden  death  four  years  before.  Since  then 
Mrs.  Rowland  had  been  abroad  and  there  had 
been  many  changes  at  the  little  farmhouse  in 
Hopkinsville.  The  farm  had  been  sold,  and 
Kate  had  married  and  had  gone  to  Boston  to 
live.  Beyond  the  facts  that  Kate's  husband 
was  older  than  she,  and  was  a  man  of  consid- 
erable means,  Mrs.  Rowland  knew  little  of 
her  niece's  present  circumstances.  It  was  with 
curiosity,  as  well  as  pleasure,  that  she  accepted 
Kate's  invitation,  and  took  the  train  specified. 

At  the  South  Station  Mrs.  Rowland  found  a 
stylishly  gowned,  smiling  young  woman  with 
a  cordial  welcome.  An  imposing  carriage  with 
a  liveried  coachman  waited  to  take  her  to 
Kate's  home. 

"Oh,  what  handsome  horses!"  cried  Mrs. 
42 


Crumbs 

Rowland  appreciatively,  as  she  stepped  into 
the  carriage. 

"Yes,  are  n't  they,"  agreed  Kate.  "If  only 
they  matched  better,  they'd  be  perfect.  I 
wish  both  had  stars  on  their  foreheads!" 

"Let  me  see,  you  are  on  Beacon  Street,  I 
believe,"  remarked  Mrs.  Rowland,  as  the  car- 
riage left  the  more  congested  quarter  of  the 
city. 

Kate  frowned.  "Yes,"  she  answered.  "I 
wanted  Commonwealth  Avenue,  but  Mr. 
Blake  preferred  Beacon.  All  his  people  live 
on  Beacon,  and  have  for  years." 

"Oh,  but  Beacon  is  lovely,  I  think." 

"Do  you?  Well,  perhaps;  but  Common- 
wealth is  so  much  wider  and  more  roomy.  I 
could  breathe  on  Commonwealth  Avenue,  I 
think!" 

"And  don't  you,  where  you  are?"  laughed 
Mrs.  Rowland. 

Her  niece  made  a  playfully  wry  face. 

"Just  pant  —  upon  my  word  I  do!  Not  one 
full  breath  do  I  draw,"  she  asserted. 

"Hm-m;  I've  always  understood  that  deep 
breathing  was  necessary  for  health,"  com- 

43 


The  Tangled  Threads 

mented  Mrs.  Rowland,  with  a  critical,  com- 
prehensive glance;  "but  —  you  seem  to  thrive 
all  right!  You  are  looking  well,  Kate." 

"I  don't  feel  so.  I  have  the  most  shocking 
headaches,"  the  other  retorted.  "Ah,  here  we 
are!" 

Mrs.  Rowland  followed  her  hostess  up  a 
short  flight  of  stone  steps  into  a  handsome  hall. 
A  well-trained  maid  was  at  once  in  attendance, 
and  another,  a  little  later,  helped  her  unpack. 

"My  dear,"  Mrs.  Rowland  said  to  her  niece 
when  she  came  downstairs,  "what  a  lucky 
woman  you  are  to  have  two  such  maids !  They 
are  treasures!" 

Kate's  hands  flew  to  her  head  with  a  gesture 
of  despair. 

"Maids!  —  Aunt  Ellen,  don't  ever  say  the 
word  to  me,  I  beg !  I  never  keep  one  more  than 
a  month,  and  I'm  shaking  in  my  shoes  this 
very  minute.  There 's  a  new  cook  in  the 
kitchen,  and  I  have  n't  the  least  idea  what 
your  dinner  will  be." 

"I'm  not  a  bit  worried,"  rejoined  Mrs.  How- 
land.  "What  a  pretty  home  you  have,  Kate," 
she  added,  tactfully  changing  the  subject. 

44 


Crumbs 

"Think  so?  I'm  glad  you  like  it.  I  some- 
times wish  I  could  get  hold  of  the  man  who 
built  this  house,  though,  and  give  him  a  piece 
of  my  mind.  The  rooms  on  this  floor  are  so 
high  studded  they  give  me  the  shivers,  while 
all  the  chambers  are  so  low  they  are  absurd. 
Did  n't  you  notice  it  in  your  room?" 

"Why  —  no;  I  don't  think  I  did." 

"Well,  you  will  now." 

"Perhaps  so,  since  you  have  told  me  to," 
returned  Mrs.  Rowland,  a  curious  smile  on 
her  lips. 

-The  dinner  was  well  planned,  well  cooked, 
and  well  served,  in  Mrs.  Rowland's  opinion, 
though  to  her  niece  it  was  none  of  the  three. 
Kate's  husband,  the  Honorable  Eben  Blake, 
proved  to  be  a  genial,  distinguished-looking 
man  who  welcomed  Mrs.  Rowland  with  the 
cordiality  that  he  displayed  toward  anybody  or 
anything  connected  in  the  most  remote  degree 
with  his  wife.  It  was  evidently  with  sincere  re- 
grets that  he  made  his  apologies  after  dinner, 
and  left  the  house  with  a  plea  of  business. 

"It's  always  that  way  when  I  want  him!" 
exclaimed  Kate  petulantly.  "Then  night  after 

45 


The  Tangled  Threads 

night  when  I  don't  want  him  he'll  stay  at 
home  and  read  and  smoke." 

"But  you  have  friends  —  you  go  out," 
hazarded  Mrs.  Rowland. 

Mrs.  Blake  raised  her  eyebrows. 

"Oh,  of  course!  But,  after  all,  what  do  calls 
and  receptions  amount  to?  You  always  meet 
the  same  people  who  say  the  same  things, 
whether  you  go  to  see  them  or  they  come  to 
see  you." 

Mrs.  Rowland  laughed;  then  she  said,  softly, 

"The  old,  old  story,  Kate,  —  the  crumbs 
on  the  plates." 

"What?"  demanded  the  younger  woman 
in  frank  amazement.  There  was  a  moment's 
pause  during  which  she  gazed  blankly  into  her 
aunt's  eyes.  "Oh!  —  that?"  she  added,  color- 
ing painfully;  then  she  uptilted  her  chin.  "You 
are  very  much  mistaken,  auntie,"  she  resumed 
with  some  dignity.  "It  is  nothing  of  the  sort. 
I  am  very  happy -=-  very  happy,  indeed!" 
positively.  "I  have  a  good  husband,  a  pretty 
home,  more  money  than  is  good  for  me,  and  — 
well,  everything,"  she  finished  a  little  breath- 
lessly. 


Crumbs 

Again  Mrs.  Rowland  laughed,  but  her  face 
grew  almost  instantly  grave. 

"And  yet,  my  dear,"  she  said  gently, 
"scarcely  one  thing  has  been  mentioned  since 
I  came  that  was  quite  right." 

"Oh,  Aunt  Ellen,  how  can  you  say  such  a 
dreadful  thing!" 

"Listen,"  replied  Mrs.  Rowland;  "it's  little 
bits  of  things  that  you  don't  think  of.  It  has 
grown  on  you  without  your  realizing  it:  the 
horses  did  n't  both  have  stars ;  the  house  was  n't 
on  Commonwealth  Avenue;  the  rooms  are  too 
high  or  too  low  studded;  the  roast  was  over- 
done; your  husband  could  n't"  — 

"Oh,  auntie,  auntie,  I  beg  of  you!"  —  inter- 
rupted Kate  hysterically. 

"Are  you  convinced,  then?" 

Kate  shook  her  head.  "  I  can't,  auntie  —  I 
can't  believe  it!"  she  cried.  "It  —  it  can't  be 
like  that  always.  There  must  have  been  special 
things  to-day  that  plagued  me.  Auntie,  I'm 
not  such  a  —  monster!" 

"Hm-m;  well  —  will  you  consent  to  an  ex- 
periment to  —  er  —  find  out? " 

"Indeed  I  will!"  returned  Kate  promptly. 
47 


The  Tangled  Threads 

"Very  good!  Every  time  I  hear  those  little 
dissatisfied  fault-findings,  I  am  going  to  men- 
tion crumbs  or  plates  or  china.  I  think  you'll 
understand.  Is  it  a  bargain  ?" 

"It's  a  bargain,"  agreed  Kate,  and  she 
smiled  confidently. 

The  rest  of  the  evening  Mrs.  Blake  kept  close 
guard  over  her  tongue.  Twice  a  "but"  and 
once  an  "only"  slipped  out;  but  she  bit  her 
lips  and  completed  her  sentence  in  another  way 
in  each  case,  and  if  Mrs.  Rowland  noticed,  she 
made  no  sign. 

It  rained  the  next  morning.  Kate  came  into 
the  dining-room  with  a  frown. 

"I'm  so  sorry,  auntie,"  she  sighed.  "I'd 
planned  a  drive  this  morning.  It  always  rains 
when  I  want  to  do  something,  but  when  I 
don't,  it  just  shines  and  shines,  week  in  and 
week  out." 

"Won't  the  rain  wash  the  —  plates?"  asked 
Mrs.  Rowland  in  a  low  voice,  as  she  passed  her 
niece's  chair. 

"Wha-at?"  demanded  Mrs.  Blake;  then  she 
flushed  scarlet.  "Weather  does  n't  count," 
she  finished  flippantly. 


Crumbs 

"No?  Oh!  "smiled  Mrs.  Rowland. 

"Fine  muffins,  these!"  spoke  up  Mr.  Blake, 
a  little  later.  "  New  cook  —  eh  ? " 

"Yes,"  replied  his  wife.  "But  they're 
graham.  I  'd  much  rather  have  had  corn- 
cake." 

"There  are  not  so  many  —  crumbs  to  gra- 
ham," observed  Mrs.  Rowland  musingly. 

There  was  no  reply.  The  man  of  the  house 
looked  slightly  dazed.  His  wife  bit  her  lip,  and 
choked  a  little  over  her  coffee.  Through  the 
rest  of  the  meal  Mrs.  Blake  confined  herself 
almost  exclusively  to  monosyllables,  leaving 
the  conversation  to  her  husband  and  guest. 

At  ten  the  sky  cleared,  and  Mrs.  Blake 
ordered  the  horses. 

"We  can't  drive  far,"  she  began  discontent- 
edly, "for  I  ordered  an  early  luncheon  as  we 
have  tickets  for  a  concert  this  afternoon.  I 
wanted  to  go  away  out  beyond  the  Newtons, 
but  now  we'll  have  to  take  a  little  snippy 


one." 


"Oh,  I  don't  mind,"  rejoined  her  guest 
pleasantly.  "Where  one  can't  have  the  whole 
cake  one  must  be  satisfied  with  —  crumbs." 

49 


The  Tangled  Threads 

"Why,  I  don't  see"  —  began  Kate  aggres- 
sively; then  she  stopped,  and  nervously  tapped 
her  foot. 

"Oh,  how  pretty  that  vine  is!"  cried  Mrs. 
Rowland  suddenly.  The  silence  was  growing 
oppressive. 

"  It  looks  very  well  now,  but  you  should  see 
it  in  winter,"  retorted  Kate.  "Great,  bare, 
snake-like  things  all  over  the  —  now,  don't 
cudgel  your  brains  to  bring  *  plates '  or l  crumbs ' 
into  that!"  she  broke  off  with  sudden  sharp- 
ness. 

"No,  ma'am,"  answered  Mrs.  Rowland  de- 
murely. 

By  night  the  guest,  if  not  the  hostess,  was  in 
a  state  of  nervous  tension  that  boded  ill  for 
sleep.  The  day  had  been  one  long  succession 
of  "crumbs"  and  "china  plates"  —  conversa- 
tionally. According  to  Kate,  the  roads  had 
been  muddy;  the  sun  had  been  too  bright; 
there  had  been  chops  when  there  should  have 
been  croquettes  for  luncheon;  the- concert  seats 
were  too  far  forward;  the  soprano  had  a  thin 
voice,  and  the  bass  a  faulty  enunciation;  at 
dinner  the  soup  was  insipid,  and  the  dessert 

SO 


Crumbs 

a  disappointment;  afterwards,  in  the  evening, 
callers  had  stayed  too  long. 

Mrs.  Rowland  was  in  her  own  room,  on  the 
point  of  preparing  for  bed,  when  there  came  a 
knock  at  her  chamber  door. 

"Please,  Aunt  Ellen,  may  I  come  in?" 

"Certainly,  my  dear,"  called  Mrs.  How- 
land,  hastening  across  the  room. 

Kate  stepped  inside,  closed  the  door,  and 
placed  her  back  against  it. 

"I'll  give  it  up,"  she  began,  half  laughing, 
half  crying.  "I  never,  never  would  have  be- 
lieved it!  Don't  ever  say  'crumbs'  or  'plates' 
to  me  again  as  long  as  you  live  —  please!  I  be- 
lieve I  never  can  even  see  the  things  again  with 
any  peace  or  comfort.  I  am  going  to  try  — 
try — Oh,  how  I'm  going  to  try!  —  but, 
auntie,  I  think  it 's  a  hopeless  case!"  The  next 
instant  she  had  whisked  the  door  open  and  had 
vanished  out  of  sight. 

"'Hopeless'?"  Mrs.  Howland  was  whisper- 
ing to  herself  the  next  day,  as  she  passed 
through  the  hall.  "  'Hopeless'?  Oh,  no,  I 
think  not."  And  she  smiled  as  she  heard  her 
niece's  voice  in  the  drawing-room  saying : 

51 


The  Tangled  Threads 

"High  studded,  Eben ?  —  these  rooms  ?  Yes, 
perhaps;  but,  after  all,  it  does  n't  matter  so 
much,  being  a  drawing-room  —  and  one  does 
get  better  air,  you  know!" 


A  Four-Footed  Faith 
and  a  Two 

ON  Monday  Rathburn  took  the  dog  far 
up  the  trail.  Stub  was  no  blue-ribbon, 
petted  dog  of  records  and  pedigree;  he  was  a 
vicious-looking  little  yellow  cur  of  mixed  ances- 
try and  bad  habits  —  that  is,  he  had  been  all 
this  when  Rathburn  found  him  six  months 
before  and  championed  his  cause  in  a  quarrel 
with  a  crowd  of  roughs  in  Mike  Swaney's 
saloon.  Since  then  he  had  developed  into  a 
well-behaved  little  beast  with  a  pair  of  wistful 
eyes  that  looked  unutterable  love,  and  a  tail 
that  beat  the  ground,  the  floor,  or  the  air  in 
joyous  welcome  whenever  Rathburn  came  in 
sight.  He  was  part  collie,  sharp-nosed  and 
prick-eared,  and  his  undersized  little  body  still 
bore  the  marks  of  the  precarious  existence  that 
had  been  his  before  Rathburn  had  befriended 
him. 

Rathburn  had  rescued  the  dog  that  day  in 

53 


The  Tangled  Threads 

the  saloon  more  to  thwart  the  designs  of  Pete 
Mulligan,  the  head  of  the  gang  and  an  old 
enemy,  than  for  any  compassion  for  the  dog 
itself;  but  after  he  had  taken  the  little  animal 
home  he  rather  enjoyed  the  slavish  devotion 
which  —  in  the  dog's  mind  —  seemed  evidently 
to  be  the  only  fit  return  for  so  great  a  service 
as  had  been  done  him.  For  some  months, 
therefore,  Rathburn  petted  the  dog,  fed  him, 
taught  him  to  "speak"  and  to  "beg,"  and 
made  of  him  an  almost  constant  companion. 
At  the  end  of  that  time,  the  novelty  having 
worn  thin,  he  was  ready  —  as  he  expressed  it 
to  himself —  to  "  call  the  whole  thing  off,"  and 
great  was  his  disgust  that  the  dog  failed  to  see 
the  affair  in  the  same  light. 

For  some  time,  Rathburn  endured  the  plain- 
tive whines,  the  questioning  eyes,  the  frequent 
thrusts  of  a  cold  little  nose  against  his  hand; 
then  he  determined  to  end  it  all. 

"Stub,  come  here!"  he  called  sharply,  his 
right  hand  seeking  his  pocket. 

With  a  yelp  of  joy  the  dog  leaped  forward  — 
not  for  days  had  his  master  voluntarily  no- 
ticed him. 

54 


A  Four-Footed  Faith  and  a  Two 

Rathburn  raised  his  pistol  and  took  careful 
aim.  His  eye  was  steady  and  his  hand  did  not 
shake.  Two  feet  away  the  dog  had  come  to  a 
sudden  halt.  Something  in  the  eye  or  in  the 
leveled  weapon  had  stayed  his  feet.  He  whined, 
then  barked,  his  eyes  all  the  while  wistfully 
demanding  an  explanation.  Suddenly,  his 
gaze  still  fixed  on  his  master's  face,  he  rose 
upright  on  his  haunches  and  held  before  him 
two  little  dangling  paws. 

There  was  a  silence,  followed  by  a  muttered 
oath,  as  the  pistol  dropped  to  the  ground. 

"Confound  my  babyishness ! "  snarled  Rath- 
burn,  stooping  and  pocketing  his  weapon. 
"One  would  think  I'd  never  seen  a  gun  be- 
fore!" 

This  was  on  Sunday.  On  Monday  Rathburn 
took  the  dog  far  up  the  trail. 

"Want  a  dog?"  he  said  to  the  low-browed, 
unkempt  man  sitting  at  the  door  of  a  squat 
cabin. 

"Well,  I  don't.  I  ain't  buyin'  dogs  these 
days." 

"  Yer  don't  have  ter  buy  this  one,"  observed 
Rathburn  meaningly. 

55 


The  Tangled  Threads 

The  other  glanced  up  with  sharp  eyes. 

"Humph!  Bite?"  he  snapped. 

Rathburn  shook  his  head. 

"Sick  of  him,"  he  returned  laconically. 
"Like  his  room  better 'n  his  company." 

"Humph!"  grunted  the  other.  Then  to  the 
dog:  "Come  here,  sir,  an'  let's  have  a  look  at 
ye!"  . 

Five  minutes  later  Rathburn  strode  down 
the  trail  alone,  while  behind  him,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  fast-shut  cabin  door,  barked  and 
scratched  a  frantic  little  yellow  dog. 

Tuesday  night,  when  Rathburn  came  home, 
the  first  sound  that  greeted  him  was  a  joyous 
bark,  as  a  quivering,  eager  little  creature  leaped 
upon  him  from  out  of  the  dark. 

On  Wednesday  Stub  trotted  into  town  at 
Rathburn's  heels,  and  all  the  way  down  the 
straggling  street  he  looked  neither  to  the  right 
nor  to  the  left,  so  fearful  did  he  seem  that  the 
two  great  boots  he  was  following  should  in  some 
way  slip  from  his  sight.  And  yet,  vigilant  as 
he  was,  the  door  of  Swaney's  saloon  got  some- 
how between  and  left  him  on  one  side  barking 
and  whining  and  running  like  mad  about  the 

56 


A  Four-Footed  Faith  and  a  Two 

room,  while  on  the  other  his  master  stood  jin- 
gling the  two  pieces  of  silver  in  his  pocket  — 
the  price  Mike  Swaney  had  paid  for  his  new 
dog. 

Halfway  up  the  mountain-side  Rathburn 
was  still  chuckling,  still  jingling  his  coins. 

"When  a  man  pays  money,"  he  was  saying 
aloud,  as  he  squared  his  shoulders  and  looked 
across  the  valley  at  the  setting  sun,  "when  a 
man  pays  money  he  watches  out.  I  reckon 
Stub  has  gone  fer  good,  sure  thing,  this  time!" 
And  yet — long  before  dawn  there  came  a  whine 
and  a  gentle  scratch  at  his  cabin  door;  and 
although  four  times  the  dog  was  returned  to 
his  new  owner,  four  times  he  escaped  and  nosed 
the  long  trail  that  led  to  the  cabin  on  the  moun- 
tain-side. 

After  Stub's  fourth  desertion  the  saloon- 
keeper refused  to  take  him  again,  and  for  a 
week  the  dog  lay  unmolested  in  his  old  place 
in  the  sun  outside  the  cabin  door,  or  dozed 
before  the  fireplace  at  night.  Then  Rathburn 
bestirred  himself  and  made  one  last  effort,  tak- 
ing the  dog  quite  over  the  mountain  and  leav- 
ing him  tied  to  a  tree. 

57 


The  Tangled  Threads 

At  the  end  of  thirty-six  hours,  Rathburn  was 
congratulating  himself;  at  the  end  of  thirty- 
seven  he  was  crying,  "Down,  sir — down!" 
to  a  joy-crazed  little  dog  which  had  come  leap- 
ing down  the  mountain-side  with  eighteen 
inches  of  rope  dangling  at  his  heels  —  a  rope 
whose  frayed  and  tattered  end  showed  the 
marks  of  sharp  little  teeth. 

Rathburn  gave  it  up  after  that,  and  Stub 
stayed  on.  There  was  no  petting,  no  trick- 
teaching;  there  were  only  sharp  words  and 
sometimes  a  kick  or  a  cuff.  Gradually  the 
whines  and  barks  gave  way  to  the  more  silent 
appeal  of  wistful  eyes,  and  Stub  learned  that 
life  now  was  a  thing  of  little  food  and  less  joy, 
and  that  existence  was  a  thing  of  long  mo- 
tionless watchings  of  a  master  who  would 
not  understand. 

Weeks  passed  and  a  cold  wind  swept  down 
from  the  mountains.  The  line  of  snow  crept 
nearer  and  nearer  the  clearing  about  the  cabin, 
and  the  sun  grew  less  warm.  Rathburn  came 
home  each  night  with  a  deeper  frown  on  his 
face,  and  a  fiercer  oath  as  he  caught  sight  of 
the  dog.  Down  at  Swaney's  the  men  knew  that 

58 


A  Four-Footed  Faith  and  a  Two 

Bill  Rathburn  was  having  a  "streak  o'  poor 
luck";  the  golden  treasure  he  sought  was  prov- 
ing elusive.  Stub  knew  only  that  he  must  hide 
each  night  now  when  his  master  appeared. 

As  the  days  passed  food  became  scarce  in 
the  cabin.  It  had  been  some  time  since  Rath- 
burn  had  gone  to  town  for  supplies.  Then 
came  the  day  when  a  great  joy  came  into  Stub's 
life  —  his  master  spoke  to  him.  It  was  not  the 
old  fond  greeting,  to  be  sure.  It  was  a  com- 
mand, and  a  sharp  one;  but  in  Stub's  opinion 
it  was  a  vast  improvement  on  the  snarling 
oaths  or  wordless  glowerings  which  had  been 
his  portion  for  the  past  weeks,  and  he  re- 
sponded to  it  with  every  sense  and  muscle 
quiveringly  alert. 

And  so  it  came  about  that  Stub,  in  obedience 
to  that  sharp  command,  frequently  scampered 
off  with  his  master  to  spend  long  days  in  the 
foothills,  or  following  the  mountain  streams. 
Sometimes  it  was  a  partridge,  sometimes  it  was 
a  squirrel,  or  a  rabbit  —  whatever  it  was  that 
fell  a  victim  to  Rathburn's  gun,  Stub  learned 
very  soon  that  it  must  be  brought  at  once  to 
the  master  and  laid  at  his  feet;  and  so  proud 

59 


The  Tangled  Threads 

was  he  to  be  thus  of  use  and  consequence  that 
he  was  well  content  if  at  the  end  of  the  day  his 
master  tossed  him  a  discarded  bone  after  the 
spoils  had  been  cooked  and  the  man's  own 
appetite  satisfied. 

It  was  on  one  of  the  days  when  work,  not 
hunting,  filled  the  time,  that  Rathburn  came 
home  after  a  long  day's  labor  to  find  Stub  wait- 
ing for  him  with  a  dead  rabbit.  After  that  it 
came  to  be  a  common  thing  for  the  dog  to  trot 
off  by  himself  in  the  morning;  and  the  man  fell 
more  and  more  in  the  way  of  letting  him  go 
alone,  as  it  left  his  own  time  the  more  free  for 
the  pursuit  of  that  golden  sprite  who  was  ever 
promising  success  just  ahead. 

As  for  Stub  —  Stub  was  happy.  He  spent 
the  long  days  in  the  foothills  or  on  the 
mountain-side,  and  soon  became  expert  in  his 
hunting.  He  would  trail  for  hours  without 
giving  tongue,  and  would  patiently  lie  and  wait 
for  a  glimpse  of  a  venturesome  woodchuck  or 
squirrel.  So  devoted  was  he,  so  well  trained, 
and  so  keenly  alive  was  he  to  his  responsibili- 
ties that,  whether  the  day  had  been  one  of 
great  or  small  success,  he  was  always  to  be 

60 


A  Four-Focffed~^ajth  and  a  Two 

found  at  night  crouching  before  the  cabin  door 
on  guard  of  somethingjimp  and  motionless  — 
something  that  a  do^nhours  before  had  been 
a  throbbing,  scurrying  bit  of  life  in  the  forest. 
To  be  sure,  that  "something"  did  not  always 
have  a  food  value  commensurate  with  the 
labor  and  time  Stub  had  spent  to  procure  it; 
but  to  Stub  evidently  the  unforgivable  sin  was 
to  return  with  nothing,  which  fact  may  ex- 
plain why  Rathburn  came  home  one  night  to 
find  Stub  on  guard  beside  a  small  dead  snake. 
Both  man  and  dog  went  supperless  that  night 
—  the  man  inside  the  cabin  before  a  roaring 
fire;  the  dog  outside  in  the  cheerless  dark  be- 
fore a  fast-closed  door  whither  his  master  had 
promptly  consigned  him. 

Gradually  as  the  days  passed  there  came 
still  another  change  in  the  life  at  the  cabin. 
Rathburn's  step  became  slow,  and  his  cheeks 
sunken.  Sometimes  he  did  not  leave  home  all 
day,  but  lay  tossing  from  side  to  side  on  his 
bunk  in  the  corner.  At  such  times,  if  the  result 
of  Stub's  hunt  were  eatable,  the  man  would 
rouse  himself  enough  to  stir  the  fire  and  get 
supper;  and  always,  after  such  a  day  at  home, 

61 


The  Tangled  Threads 

Rathburn  was  astir  the  next  morning  at  dawn 
and  off  in  feverish  haste  for  a  long  day's  work 
to  make  up  for  the  long  day  of  idleness. 

But  there  came  a  time  when  he  could  not 
do  this  —  when  each  day  found  him  stretched 
prone  on  his  bunk  or  moving  feebly  about  the 
room.  Then  came  a  night  when  Stub's  bark 
at  the  door  was  unanswered.  Again  and  again 
Stub  demanded  admittance  only  to  be  met 
with  silence.  The  door,  though  unlatched, 
was  swollen  from  recent  rains,  and  it  took  five 
good  minutes  and  all  the  strength  of  one  small 
dog  to  push  it  open  a  narrow  foot,  and  then 
there  were  only  silence  and  a  dying  fire  by 
way  of  greeting. 

Stub  dropped  his  burden  on  the  floor  and 
whined.  He  was  particularly  proud  to-night; 
he  had  brought  home  a  partridge  —  the  first 
he  had  ever  caught  without  the  aid  of  his  mas- 
ter's gun. 

The  figure  on  the  bed  did  not  move. 

The  dog  picked  up  the  bird  he  had  dropped 
and  walked  toward  his  master.  This  time  he 
laid  his  offering  close  to  the  bunk  and  barked. 

The  man  stirred  and  groaned.  For  long  min- 
62 


A  Four-Footed  Faith  and  a  Two 

utes  the  dog  stood  motionless,  watching;  then 
he  crept  to  the  fire  and  almost  into  the  hot 
ashes  in  his  efforts  to  warm  the  blood  in  his 
shivering  little  legs. 

In  the  morning  the  fire  was  quite  out.  Stub 
stretched  his  stiffened  body  and  gazed  about 
the  room.  Over  on  the  bed  the  man  did  not 
stir  nor  speak.  The  dead  bird  lay  untouched 
at  his  side.  There  was  a  whine,  a  bark,  and  a 
long  minute  of  apparent  indecision;  then  the 
dog  pattered  across  the  floor,  wormed  himself 
through  the  partly  open  door,  and  took  the 
trail  that  led  to  the  foothills. 

Three  times  Stub  brought  to  the  fireless, 
silent  cabin  the  result  of  his  day's  hunt  and 
laid  it  at  his  master's  side,  and  always  there 
was  only  silence  or  a  low  groan  to  greet  him. 

On  the  third  night  it  snowed  —  the  first 
storm  of  the  season.  A  keen  wind  swept  down 
the  mountain  and  played  hide-and-seek  with 
the  cabin  door,  so  that  in  the  morning  a  long 
bar  of  high-piled  snow  lay  across  the  cabin 
floor. 

When  the  men  from  the  village  had  ploughed 
their  way  through  the  snow  and  pushed  open 

63 


The  Tangled  Threads 

the  door,  they  stopped  amazed  upon  the 
threshold,  looking  at  one  another  with  min- 
gled alarm  and  pity;  then  one  of  them,  con- 
quering his  reluctance,  strode  forward.  He 
stooped  for  a  moment  over  the  prostrate  form 
of  the  man  before  he  turned  and  faced  his  com- 
panions. 

"Boys,  he's  —  gone,"  he  said  huskily;  and 
in  the  silence  that  followed,  four  men  bared 
their  heads. 

It  was  a  dog's  low  whine  that  first  stirred 
into  action  the  man  by  the  bunk.  He  looked 
down  and  his  eyes  grew  luminous.  He  saw  the 
fireless  hearth,  the  drifted  snow,  and  the  half- 
dead  dog  keeping  watchful  guard  over  a  pile 
of  inert  fur  and  feathers  on  the  floor  —  a  pile 
frozen  stiff  and  mutely  witnessing  to  a  daily 
duty  well  performed. 

"I  reckon  I'm  needin'  a  dog,"  he  said,  as  he 
stooped  and  patted  Stub's  head. 


A  Matter  of  System 

AT  the  office  of  Hawkins  &  Hawkins,  sys- 
tem was  everything.  Even  the  trotter- 
boy  was  reduced  to  an  orbit  that  ignored  craps 
and  marbles,  and  the  stenographer  went  about 
her  work  like  a  well-oiled  bit  of  machinery.  It 
is  not  strange,  then,  that  Jasper  Hawkins, 
senior  member  of  the  firm,  was  particularly  in- 
censed at  the  confusion  that  Christmas  always 
brought  to  his  home. 

For  years  he  bore  —  with  such  patience  as 
he  could  muster  —  the  attack  of  nervous  pros- 
tration that  regularly,  on  the  26th  day  of 
December,  laid  his  wife  upon  a  bed  of  invalid- 
ism;  then,  in  the  face  of  the  unmistakable  evi- 
dence that  the  malady  would  this  year  precede 
the  holy  day  of  peace  and  good-will,  he  burst 
his  bonds  of  self-control  and  spoke  his  mind. 

It  was  upon  the  morning  of  the  2ist. 

"Edith,"  he  began,  in  what  his  young  daugh- 
ter called  his  "now  mind  ".voice,  "this  thing 
has  got  to  stop." 

"What  thing?" 

65 


The  Tangled  Threads 

"Christmas." 

"Jas-perl"  —  it  was  as  if  she  thought  he 
had  the  power  to  sweep  good-will  itself  from 
the  earth.  "  Christmas  —  stop  !  " 

"Yes.  My  dear,  how  did  you  spend  yester- 
day?" 

"  I  was  —  shopping." 

"Exactly.  And  the  day  before?  —  and  the 
day  before  that?  —  and  before  that?  You 
need  n't  answer,  for  I  krtow.  And  you  Were 
shopping  for  — "he  paused  expectantly. 

"Presents."  Something  quite  outside  of  her- 
self had  forced  the  answer. 

"Exactly.  Now,  Edith,  surely  it  need  not 
take  all  your  time  for  a  month  before  Christ- 
mas to  buy  a  few  paltry  presents,  and  all  of  it 
for  two  months  afterward  to  get  over  buying 
them!" 

"But,  Jasper,  they  aren't  few,  and  they're 
anything  but  paltry.  Imagine  giving  Uncle 
Harold  a  paltry  present!"  retorted  Edith,  with 
some  spirit. 

The  man  waved  an  impatient  hand. 

"Very  well,  we  will  call  them  magnificent, 
then,"  he  conceded.  "But  even  in  that  case, 

66 


A  Matter  of  System 

surely  the  countless  stores  full  of  beautiful  and 
useful  articles,  and  with  a  list  properly  tabu- 
lated, and  a  sufficiency  of  money — •"  An  ex- 
pressive gesture  finished  his  sentence. 

The  woman  shook  her  head. 

"I  know;  it  sounds  easy,"  she  sighed,  "but 
it  is  n't.  It's  so  hard  to  think  up  what  to  give, 
and  after  I  've  thought  it  up  and  bought  it,  I  'm 
just  sure  I  ought  to  have  got  the  other  thing." 

"But you  should  have  some  system  about  it." 

"Oh,  I  had  —  a  list,"  she  replied  dispiritedly. 
"But  I'm  so  — tired." 

Jasper  Hawkins  suddenly  squared  his  shoul- 
ders. 

"How  many  names  have  you  left  now  to 
buy  presents  for?"  he  demanded  briskly. 

"Three  —  Aunt  Harriet,  and  Jimmy,  and 
Uncle  Harold.  They  always  get  left  till  the 
last.  They're  so  —  impossible." 

"Impossible?  Nonsense!  —  and  I'll  prove 
it  to  you,  too.  Give  yourself  no  further  con- 
cern, Edith,  about  Christmas,  if  that  is  all 
there  is  left  to  do  —  just  consider  it  done." 

"Do  you  mean  —  you'll  get  the  presents 
for  them?" 

67 


The  Tangled  Threads 

"Most  certainly." 

"But,  Jasper,  you  know — " 

An  imperative  gesture  silenced  her. 

"My  dear,  I  'm  doing  this  to  relieve  you,  and 
that  means  that  you  are  not  even  to  think  of 
it  again." 

"Very  well;  er  —  thank  you,"  sighed  the 
woman;  but  her  eyes  were  troubled. 

Not  so  Jasper's;  his  eyes  quite  sparkled 
with  anticipation  as  he  left  the  house  some 
minutes  later. 

On  the  way  downtown  he  made  his  plans 
and  arranged  his  list.  He  wished  it  were  longer 
—  that  list.  Three  names  were  hardly  suffi- 
cient to  demonstrate  his  theories  and  display 
his  ability.  As  for  Aunt  Harriet,  Jimmy,  and 
Uncle  Harold  being  "impossible"  — that  was 
all  nonsense,  as  he  had  said;  and  before  his 
eyes  rose  a  vision  of  the  three :  Aunt  Harriet,  a 
middle-aged  spinster,  poor,  half-sick,  and  chron- 
ically discontented  with  the  world;  Jimmy, 
a  white-faced  lad  who  was  always  reading  a 
book;  and  Uncle  Harold,  red-faced,  red-headed, 
and  —  red-tempered.  (Jasper  smiled  all  to 
himself  at  this  last  thought.)  "  Red-tempered  " 

68 


A  Matter  of  System 

—  that  was  good.  He  would  tell  Edith  —  but 
he  would  not  teljxothers.  Witticisms  at  the 
expense  of  a  ricbr  old  bachelor  uncle  whose  heir 
was  a  matter  of  his  own  choosing  were  best 
kept  pretty  miirh-'t6  one's/  self.  Edith  was 
right,  however,  in  one  thuftg,  Jasper  decided: 
Uncle  Harold  surely  could  not  be  given  a 
"  paltry  "  present.  He  imist  be  given  something 
fine,  expensive,  and^  desirable — spRletEiiig 
that  one  would  like  one's  self.^And  immedi- 
ately there  popped  into  Toper's  mind  the 
thought  of  a  certain  exquisitely  carved  meer- 
schaum which  he  hadygeen  in  a  window  and 
which  he  had  greatly  coveted.  As  for  Aunt 
Harriet  and  Jirnnary  —  their  case  was  too  sim- 
ple for  even  a  second  thought:  to  one  he  would 
give  a  pair  o&T>ed-slippers;  to  the  other,  a  book. 
Some  ramutes  later  Jasper  Hawkins  tucked 
into  his/pocketbook  an  oblong  bit  of  paper  on 
whiclynad  been  neatly  written :  — 

Presents  to  be  bought  for  Christmas,  1908: 
Aunt  Harriet,  spinster,  58(?)  years  old  —  Bed- 
affippers. 

/    Uncle  Harold,  bachelor,  65  years  old —  Pipe. 
Jimmy,  boy,  J2  years  old  —  Book. 

6a 


The  Tangled  Threads 

In  the  office  of  Hawkins  &  Hawkins  that 
morning,  the  senior  member  of  the  firm  found 
a  man  waiting  for  him.  This  man  was  the 
emissary  of  his  mighty  chief,  and  upon  this 
chief  rested  the  whole  structure  of  a  "deal" 
which  was  just  then  looming  large  on  the  hori- 
zon of  Hawkins  &  Hawkins  —  and  in  which 
the  oblong  bit  of  paper  in  Jasper's  pocketbook 
had  no  part. 

Mrs.  Jasper  Hawkins  greeted  her  husband 
with  palpitating  interest  that  evening. 

"Well  —  what  did  you  get?"  she  asked. 

The  man  of  business  lifted  his  chin  trium- 
phantly. 

"Not  everything  we  asked  for,  to  be  sure," 
he  began,  "but  we  got  more  than  we  expected 
to,  and  —  >!  He  stopped  abruptly.  The  ex- 
pression on  his  wife's  face  had  suddenly  re- 
minded him  that  by  no  possible  chance  could 
she  know  what  he  was  talking  about.  "Er  — 
what  do  you  mean?"  he  demanded. 

"Why,  Jasper,  there's  only  one  thing  I  could 
mean  —  the  presents,  you  know!" 

A  curious  something  clutched  at  Jasper's 
breath  and  held  it  for  a  moment  suspended. 

70 


A  Matter  of  System 

Then   Jasper   throttled    the   something,    and 
raised  his  chin  even  higher. 

"Time  enough  for  that  to-morrow,"  he  re- 
torted lightly.  "I  did  n't  promise  to  get  them 
to-day,  you  know." 

"But,  Jasper,  to-morrow  's  the  22d!" 
"And  three  whole  days  before  Christmas." 
"Yes,  but  they  must  be  sent  the  24th." 
"And  they'll  be  sent,  my  dear,"  declared 
Jasper,  in  a  tone  of  voice  that  was  a  cold  dis- 
missal of  the  subject. 

On  the  morning  of  the  22d,  Jasper  Hawkins 
told  himself  that  he  would  not  forget  the  pres- 
ents this  time.  He  decided,  however,  that 
there  was  no  need  for  him  to  take  the  whole 
day  to  select  a  pipe,  a  book,  and  a  pair  of  slip- 
pers. There  would  be  quite  time  enough  after 
luncheon.  And  he  smiled  to  himself  in  a  supe- 
rior way  as  he  thought  of  the  dizzying  rush 
and  the  early  start  that  always  marked  his 
wife's  shopping  excursions.  He  was  still  smil- 
ing happily  when  he  sallied  forth  at  two  o'clock 
that  afternoon,  leaving  word  at  the  office  that 
he  would  return  in  an  hour. 
He  decided  to  buy  the  meerschaum  first, 
71 


The  Tangled  Threads 

and  with  unhesitating  steps  he  sought  the 
tobacco-store  in  whose  window  he  had  seen  it. 
The  pipe  was  gone,  however,  and  there  really 
was  no  other  in  the  place  that  just  suited  him, 
though  he  spent  fully  half  an  hour  trying  to 
find  one.  He  decided  then  to  look  elsewhere. 
He  would  try  the  department  store  in  which 
he  intended  to  buy  the  book  and  the  slippers. 
It  was  better,  anyway,  that  he  should  do  all 
his  shopping  under  one  roof  —  it  was  more 
systematic. 

The  great  clock  in  the  department-store 
tower  had  just  struck  three  when  Jasper  stalked 
through  the  swinging  doors  on  the  street  floor. 
He  had  been  detained.  Window  displays  had 
allured  him,  and  dawdling  throngs  of  Christ- 
mas shoppers  had  forced  his  feet  into  a  snail's 
pace.  He  drew  now  a  sigh  of  relief.  He  had 
reached  his  destination;  he  would  make  short 
work  of  his  purchases.  And  with  a  dignified 
stride  he  turned  toward  the  nearest  counter. 

At  once,  however,  he  found  himself  caught 
in  a  swirl  of  humanity  that  swept  him  along 
like  a  useless  chip  and  flung  him  against  a 
counter  much  farther  down  the  aisle.  With 


A  Matter  of  System 

what  dignity  he  could  summon  to  his  aid  he 
righted  himself  and  addressed  the  smiling  girl 
behind  it. 

"I'm   looking   for  pipes,"   he   announced, 
severely.  "Perhaps  you  can  tell  me  where  they 


are." 


She  shook  her  head. 

"Ask  him,"  she  suggested,  with  a  nod  and  a 
jerk  of  her  thumb. 

And  Jasper,  looking  in  the  direction  indi- 
cated, saw  a  jfrock-coated  man  standing  like 
a  rock  where  the  streams  of  humanity  broke 
and  surged  to  the  right  and  to  the  left.  By 
some  maneuvering,  Jasper  managed  in  time 
to  confront  this  man. 

"Pipes,"  he  panted  anxiously  —  he  was  re- 
duced now  to  the  single  word. 

"Annex;  second  floor.  Elevator  to  your 
right." 

"Thanks!"  fervently  breathed  the  senior 
member  of  the  firm  of  Hawkins  &  Hawkins, 
muttering  as  he  turned  away,  "Then  they 
have  got  some  system  in  this  infernal  bed- 
lam!" 

The  crisp  directions   had  sounded  simple, 

73 


The  Tangled  Threads 

but  they  proved  to  be  anything  but  simple  to 
follow.  Like  a  shuttlecock,  Jasper  was  tossed 
from  clerk  to  clerk,  until  by  the  time  he  reached 
his  destination  he  was  confused,  breathless, 
and  cross. 

The  pipes,  however,  were  numerous  and 
beautiful,  and  the  girl  behind  the  counter  was 
both  pretty  and  attentive;  moreover,  pipes 
did  not  happen  to  be  popular  that  day,  and  the 
corner  was  a  little  paradise  of  quietness  and 
rest.  The  man  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief  and 
bent  to  his  task. 

In  his  mind  was  the  one  thought  uppermost 
—  he  must  select  just  such  a  pipe  as  he  him- 
self would  like;  and  for  long  minutes  he  pon- 
dered whether  this,  that,  or  another  would 
best  please  him.  So  absorbed  was  he,  indeed, 
in  this  phase  of  the  question,  that  he  had  made 
his  selection  and  taken  out  his  money,  when 
the  sickening  truth  came  to  him  —  Uncle 
Harold  did  not  smoke. 

To  Jasper  it  seemed  incredible  that  he  had 
not  thought  of  this  before.  But  not  until  he 
pictured  his  purchase  in  his  uncle's  hand  had 
he  realized  that  the  thing  was  not  for  himself, 

74 


A  Matter  of  System 

after  all,  but  for  a  man  who  not  only  did 
not  smoke,  but  who  abhorred  the  habit  in 
others. 

With  a  muttered  something  that  the  right- 
eously indignant  pretty  girl  could  not  hear, 
Jasper  Hawkins  thrust  his  money  into  his 
pocket  and  rushed  blindly  away  from  the  pipe 
counter.  Long  minutes  later  in  the  street,  he 
adjusted  his  tie,  jerked  his  coat  into  place, 
straightened  his  hat,  and  looked  at  his  watch. 

It  was  four  o'clock,  and  he  must  go  back  to 
the  office  before  starting  for  home.  There  was 
still  another  whole  day  before  him,  he  remem- 
bered, and,  after  all,  it  was  a  very  simple  mat- 
ter to  buy  the  book  and  the  slippers,  and  then 
look  around  a  little  for  something  for  Uncle 
Harold.  In  the  morning  he  would  doubtless 
light  upon  the  very  thing.  And  with  this  com- 
forting thought  he  dismissed  the  subject  and 
went  back  to  the  office. 

Mrs.  Hawkins  did  not  question  her  husband 
that  night  about  what  he  had  bought.  Some- 
thing in  his  face  stayed  the  words  on  her 
lips. 

Jasper  Hawkins  went  early  to  the  office  the 
75 


The  Tangled  Threads 

next  morning,  but  it  was  fully  eleven  o'clock 
before  he  could  begin  his  shopping.  He  told 
himself,  however,  that  there  was  quite  time 
enough  for  the  little  he  had  to  do,  and  he 
stepped  off  very  briskly  in  the  direction  of  the 
department  store  he  had  left  the  night  before. 
He  had  decided  that  he  preferred  this  one  to 
the  intricacies  of  a  new  one;  besides,  he  was 
very  sure  that  there  would  not  now  be  so  many 
people  in  it. 

Just  here,  however,  Jasper  met  with  a  dis- 
appointment. Not  only  was  every  one  there 
who  had  been  there  the  day  before,  but  most  of 
them  had  brought  friends,  and  in  dismay  Jas- 
per clung  to  the  post  near  the  door  while  he 
tried  to  rally  his  courage  for  the  plunge.  In  the 
distance  the  frock-coated  man  was  still  the 
rock  where  the  stream  foamed  and  broke;  and 
after  a  long  wait  and  a  longer  struggle  Jasper 
stood  once  more  before  him. 

"I  want  slippers  —  bed-slippers  for  women," 
he  muttered. 

"  Fourth  floor,  front.  Elevator  to  your  left," 
declaimed  the  man.  And  Jasper  quite  glowed 
with  awe  at  the  thought  of  a  brain  so  stu- 


A  Matter  of  System 

pendous  that  it  could  ticket  and  tell  each  shelf 
and  counter  in  that  vast  domain  of  confusion. 

Jasper  himself  had  been  swept  to  the  right 
on  the  crest  of  a  particularly  aggressive  wave 
formed  by  the  determined  shoulders  of  a  huge 
fat  woman  who  wished  to  go  in  that  direction ; 
so  it  was  some  time  before  he  could  stem  the 
current  and  make  an  effort  to  reach  the  ele- 
vator on  the  other  side  of  the  store.  It  was 
then  that  he  suddenly  decided  to  grasp  this 
opportunity  for  "  looking  about  a  little  to  find 
something  for  Uncle  Harold" — and  it  was 
then  that  he  was  lost,  for  no  longer  had  he 
compass,  captain,  or  a  port  in  view;  but  oarless 
and  rudderless  he  drifted. 

Then,  indeed,  did  the  department  store,  in 
all  its  allurements  of  glitter  and  show  and  com- 
peting attractions,  burst  on  Jasper's  eyes,  be- 
numbing his  senses  and  overthrowing  his  judg- 
ment. For  long  minutes  he  hung  entranced 
above  a  tray  of  jeweled  side  combs,  and  for 
other  long  minutes  he  critically  weighed  the 
charms  of  a  spangled  fan  against  those  of  one 
that  was  merely  painted  —  before  he  suddenly 
awoke  to  the  realization  that  he  was  looking 

77 


The  Tangled  Threads 

for  something  for  Uncle  Harold,  and  that  Uncle 
Harold  did  not  wear  side  combs,  nor  disport 
himself  with  gauze  fans. 

"Where  do  you  keep  things  for  men?"  he 
demanded  then,  aggrievedly,  of  the  demure- 
faced  girl  behind  the  counter;  and  it  was  while 
he  was  on  the  ensuing  frantic  search  for  "things 
for  men"  that  he  stumbled  upon  the  book  de- 
partment. 

"To  be  sure  —  a  book  for  Jimmy,"  he  mut- 
tered, and  confidently  approached  a  girl  who 
already  was  trying  to  wait  on  three  customers 
at  once. 

"I  want  a  book  for  a  boy,"  he  observed;  and 
was  surprised  that  no  one  answered. 

"I  want  a  book  for  a  boy,"  he  urged,  in  a 
louder  tone. 

Still  no  one  answered. 

"I  want  a  book  —  for  —  a  —  boy,"  he  re- 
iterated distinctly;  and  this  time  the  girl  flicked 
her  ear  as  at  the  singing  of  an  annoying  insect. 

"Juveniles  three  aisles  over  to  your  left," 
she  snapped  glibly;  and  after  a  puzzled  pon- 
dering on  her  words,  Jasper  concluded  that 
they  were  meant  for  him. 

78 


A  Matter  of  System 

In  the  juvenile  department,  Jasper  won- 
dered why  every  one  in  the  store  had  chosen 
that  particular  minute  to  come  there  and  buy 
a  book  for  a  child.  Everywhere  were  haste 
and  confusion.  Nowhere  was  there  any  one 
who  paid  the  least  attention  to  himself.  At 
his  right  a  pretty  girl  chatted  fluently  of  this, 
that,  and  another  "series";  and  at  his  left  a 
severe-faced  woman  with  glasses  discoursed  on 
the  great  responsibility  of  selecting  reading  for 
the  young,  and  uttered  fearsome  prophecies  of 
the  dire  evil  that  was  sure  to  result  from  indis- 
criminate buying. 

Her  words  were  not  meant  for  Jasper's  ears, 
but  they  reached  them,  nevertheless.  The 
man  shuddered  and  grew  pale.  With  soft  steps 
he  slunk  out  of  the  book  department.  .  .  . 
To  think  that  he  —  he,  who  knew  nothing 
whatever  about  books  for  boys  —  had  nearly 
bought  one  of  the  risky  things  for  Jimmy !  And 
to  Jasper's  perverted  imagination  it  almost 
seemed  that  Jimmy,  white-faced  and  sad-eyed, 
had  already  gone  wrong  —  and  through  him. 

Jasper  looked  at  his  watch  then,  and  de- 
cided it  was  time  for  luncheon.  After  that 

79 


The  Tangled  Threads 

he  could  look  around  for  something  else  for 
Jimmy. 

It  was  six  o'clock  when  Jasper,  flushed,  tired, 
and  anxious,  looked  at  his  watch  again,  and 
took  account  of  stock. 

He  had  a  string  of  beads  and  a  pair  of  skates. 

The  skates,  of  course,  were  for  Jimmy.  He 
was  pleased  with  those.  It  was  a  girl  who  had 
helped  him  in  that  decision  —  a  very  obliging 
girl  who  had  found  him  in  the  toy  department 
confusedly  eyeing  an  array  of  flaxen-haired 
dolls,  and  who  had  gently  asked  him  the  age 
of  the  boy  for  whom  he  desired  a  present.  He 
thought  of  that  girl  now  with  gratitude. 

The  string  of  beads  did  not  so  well  please 
him.  He  was  a  little  doubtful,  anyway,  how 
he  happened  to  buy  them.  He  had  a  dim  recol- 
lection that  they  looked  wonderfully  pretty 
with  the  light  bringing  out  sparkles  of  green 
and  gold,  and  that  the  girl  who  tended  them 
did  not  happen  to  have  anything  to  do  but  to 
wait  on  him.  So  he  had  bought  them.  They 
were  handsome  beads,  and  not  at  all  cheap. 
They  would  do  for  some  one,  he  assured  him- 
self. And  not  until  he  had  dropped  them  in 

80 


A  Matter  of  System 

his  pocket  did  it  occur  to  him  that  he  was  buy- 
ing presents  for  only  a  boy,  a  bachelor,  and  a 
middle-aged  spinster.  Manifestly  a  string  of 
beads  would  not  do  for  Jimmy  or  Uncle  Har- 
old, so  they  must  do  for  Aunt  Harriet.  He  had 
meant  to  buy  bed-slippers  for  her,  but,  per- 
haps, after  all,  she  would  prefer  beads.  At  all 
events,  he  had  bought  them,  and  they  would 
have  to  go.  And  with  that  he  dismissed  the 
beads. 

As  yet  he  had  nothing  for  Uncle  Harold. 
There  seemed  to  be  nothing,  really,  that  he 
could  make  up  his  mind  to  give.  The  more  he 
searched,  the  more  undecided  he  grew.  The 
affair  of  the  pipe  had  frightened  him,  and  had 
sown  distrust  in  his  heart.  He  would  have  to 
buy  something  this  evening,  of  course,  for  it 
must  be  sent  to-morrow.  He  would  telephone 
Edith  that  he  could  not  be  home  for  dinner  — 
that  business  detained  him;  then  he  would  eat 
a  hasty  luncheon  and  buy  Uncle  Harold's 
present.  And  with  this  decision  Jasper  wearily 
.  turned  his  steps  toward  a  telephone  booth. 

Jasper  Hawkins  went  home  at  ten  o'clock. 
He  still  had  nothing  for  Uncle  Harold.   The 

81 


The  Tangled  Threads 

stores  had  closed  before  he  could  find  anything. 
But  there  was  yet  until  noon  the  next  day. 

Mrs.  Hawkins  did  not  question  her  husband. 
In  the  morning  she  only  reminded  him  timidly. 

"You  know  those  things  must  get  off  by 
twelve  o'clock,  Jasper."^ 

"Oh,  yes,  they'll  go  all  right,"  her  husband 
had  replied,  in  a  particularly  cheery  voice. 
Jasper  was  not  cheery,  however,  within.  He 
was  nervous  and  anxious.  A  terrible  fear  had 
clutched  his  heart :  what  if  he  could  not  —  but 
then,  he  must  find  something,  he  enjoined  him- 
self. And  with  that  he  started  downtown  at 
once. 

He  did  not  go  to  the  office  this  time,  but 
sought  the  stores  immediately.  He  found 
conditions  now  even  worse  than  before.  Every 
one  seemed  to  have  an  Uncle  Harold  for  whom 
was  frenziedly  being  sought  the  unattainable. 
If  at  nine  o'clock  Jasper  had  been  nervous,  at 
ten  he  was  terrified,  and  at  eleven  he  was  nearly 
frantic.  All  power  of  decision  seemed  to  have 
left  him,  and  he  stumbled  vaguely  on  and  on, 
scarcely  knowing  what  he  was  doing.  It  was 
then  that  his  eye  fell  on  a  huge  sign: 

82 


A  Matter  of  System 

"Just  the  thing  for  Christmas!  When  in 
doubt,  buy  me ! " 

There  was  a  crowd  before  the  sign,  but  Jas- 
per knew  now  how  to  use  his  elbows.  Once  at 
his  goal  he  stared  in  amazement.  Then  the 
tension  snapped,  and  he  laughed  outright  — 
before  him  were  half  a  dozen  cages  of  waltzing 
mice. 

For  a  long  time  the  curious  whirls  and  antics 
of  the  odd  little  creatures  in  their  black-and- 
white  coats  held  Jasper's  gaze  in  a  fascinated 
stare.  Then  the  man,  obeying  an  impulse  that 
he  scarcely  understood  himself,  made  his  pur- 
chase, gave  explicit  directions  where  and  when 
it  was  to  be  sent,  and  left  the  store.  Then,  and 
not  until  then,  did  Jasper  Hawkins  fully  real- 
ize that  to  his  Uncle  Harold  —  the  rich  old 
man  who  must  be  petted  and  pampered,  and 
never  by  any  chance  offended  —  he  had  sent 
as  a  Christmas  present  a  cage  of  dancing 
mice! 

That  night  Mrs.  Hawkins  fearlessly  asked 
her  questions,  and  as  fearlessly  her  husband 
answered  them.  He  had  determined  to  as- 
sume a  bold  front.  However  grave  might  be 

83 


The  Tangled  Threads 

his  own  doubts  and  fears,  he  had  resolved  that 
she  should  not  know  of  them. 

"Presents?  Of  course!  They  went  to-day 
with  our  love,"  he  answered  gayly. 

"And  what  —  did  you  send?" 

"The  simplest  things  in  the  world;  a  string 
of  handsome  beads  to  Aunt  Harriet,  a  pair  of 
skates  to  Jimmy,  and  a  cage  of  the  funniest 
little  waltzing  mice  you  ever  saw,  to  Uncle 
'  Harold.  You  see  it  all  resolves  itself  down  to 
a  mere  matter  of  system,"  he  went  on;  but  at 
the  real  agony  in  his  wife's  face  he  stopped  in 
dismay.  "Why,  Edith!" 

"Jasper,  you  did  n't  —  you  did  n't  send 
skates  to  Jimmy!" 

"But  I  did.  Why  not?" 

"But,  Jasper,  he's  —  lame!" 

Jasper  fell  back  limply.  All  the  bravado 
fled  from  his  face. 

"Edith,  how  could  I  —  how  could  I — for- 
get —  a  thing  like  that!"  he  groaned. 

"And  beads  for  Aunt  Harriet!  Why,  Jas- 
per, I  never  saw  a  bead  on  her  neck !  You  know 
how  poor  she  is,  and  how  plain  she  dresses.  I 
always  give  her  useful,  practical  things!" 


A  Matter  of  System 

Jasper  said  nothing.  He  was  still  with 
Jimmy  and  the  skates.  He  wished  he  had 
bought  a  book  —  a  wicked  book,  if  need  be; 
anything  would  be  better  than  those  skates. 

"And  mice  —  mice  for  Uncle  Harold!"  wept 
Edith.  "Why,  Jasper,  how  could  you?  —  dirty 
little  beasts  that  Uncle  Harold  can  only  feed  to 
his  cat !  And  I  had  hoped  so  much  from  Uncle 
Harold.  Oh,  Jasper,  Jasper,  how  could  you!" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Jasper  dully,  as  he  got 
up  to  leave  the  room. 

To  Jasper  it  was  not  a  happy  Christmas. 
There  were  those  three  letters  of  thanks  to 
come;  and  he  did  not  want  to  read  them. 

As  it  chanced  they  all  came  the  same  day, 
the  28th.  They  were  addressed  to  Mrs.  Haw- 
kins, and  naturally  she  read  them  first.  When 
Jasper  came  home  that  night  they  lay  wait- 
ing for  him  on  his  desk.  He  saw  them,  but  he 
decided  not  to  read  them  until  after  dinner. 
He  felt  that  he  needed  all  the  fortification  he 
could  obtain.  He  hoped  that  his  wife  would 
not  mention  them,  and  yet  he  was  conscious 
of  a  vague  disappointment  when,  as  time 
passed,  she  did  not  mention  them. 


The  Tangled  Threads 

Dinner  over,  further  delay  was  impossible; 
and  very  slowly  he  picked  up  the  letters.  He 
singled  out  Aunt  Harriet's  first.  Dimly  he  felt 
that  this  might  be  a  sort  of  preparation  for 
the  wrath  to  follow. 

Dear  Niece  and  Nephew  [he  read  —  and  he  sat 
suddenly  erect].  How  ever  in  the  world  did  you 
guess  that  it  was  beads  that  I  wanted  more  than 
anything  else  in  the  world?  And  these  are  such 
handsome  ones!  Ever  since  beads  and  chains  have 
been  worn  so  much  I  have  longed  for  one  all  my 
own;  but  I  have  tried  to  crush  the  feeling  and 
hide  it,  for  I  feared  it  might  be  silly  —  and  me  so 
old  and  faded,  and  out-of-date!  But  I  know  now 
that  it  is  n't,  and  that  I  need  n't  be  ashamed  of 
it  any  more,  for,  of  course,  you  and  Jasper  would 
never  give  me  anything  silly!  And  thank  you 
ever  and  ever  so  much! 

With  a  slightly  dazed  expression  Jasper  Haw- 
kins laid  down  Aunt  Harriet's  letter  when  he 
had  finished  it,  and  picked  up  the  one  from 
Uncle  Harold.  As  he  did  so  he  glanced  at  his 
wife;  but  she  was  sewing  and  did  not  appear 
to  be  noticing  him. 

Well,  well,  children,  you  have  done  it  this  time! 
[read  Jasper,  with  fearful  eyes].  The  little  beasts 
came  on  Christmas  morning,  and  never  have  I 

86 


A  Matter  of  System 

[Jasper  turned  the  page  and  relaxed  suddenly] 
stopped  laughing  since,  I  believe!  How  in  the 
world  did  you  happen  to  think  of  a  present  so 
original,  so  cute,  and  so  everlastingly  entertain- 
ing? The  whole  house,  and  I  might  say  the  whole 
town,  is  in  a  fever  over  them,  and  there  is  already 
a  constant  stream  of  children  past  my  window  — 
you  see,  I  Ve  got  the  little  devils  where  they  can 
best  be  seen  and  appreciated! 

There  was  more,  much  more,  and  all  in  the 
same  strain;  and  again,  as  Jasper  laid  the  let- 
ter down  he  glanced  at  his  wife,  only  to  find  a 
demure,  downcast  gaze. 

But  one  letter  now  remained,  and  in  spite  of 
what  had  gone  before,  Jasper  picked  up  this 
with  dread.  Surely,  nothing  —  nothing  could 
reconcile  Jimmy  and  those  awful  skates!  He 
winced  as  he  opened  the  letter  and  saw  that 
Jimmy's  mother  had  written  —  poor  Jimmy's 
mother!  how  her  heart  must  have  ached!  — 
and  then  he  stared  in  unbelieving  wonder  at 
the  words,  and  read  them  over  and  over,  lest  he 
had  in  some  way  misconstrued  their  meaning. 

My  dear  sister  and  brother  [Jimmy's  mother 
had  written],  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  Jimmy 
when  your  beautiful  skates  arrived.  He  will 

87 


The  Tangled  Threads 

write  you  himself  and  thank  you,  but  I  know  he 
can't  half  make  you  understand  just  what  that 
present  means  to  him,  so  I  am  going  to  write  you 
myself  and  tell  you  what  he  said;  then  maybe 
you  can  realize  a  little  what  a  great  joy  you  have 
brought  into  his  life. 

And  let  me  say  right  here  that  I  myself  have 
been  blind  all  these  years.  I  have  n't  understood. 
And  what  I  want  to  know  is,  how  did  you  find  it 
out  —  what  Jimmy  wanted  ?  How  did  you  know  ? 
When  I,  his  own  mother,  never  guessed!  Why, 
even  when  the  skates  came  on  Christmas  Day,  I 
was  frightened  and  angry,  because  you  had  been 
so  "thoughtless"  as  to  send  my  poor  lame  boy 
skates!  And  then  —  I  could  hardly  believe  my 
own  eyes  and  ears,  for  Jimmy,  his  face  one 
flame  of  joy,  was  waving  a  skate  in  each  hand. 
"Mother,  mother!"  he  was  shouting.  "See,  I've 
got  a  boy  present,  a  real  boy  present  —  just  as  if 
I  was  —  like  other  boys.  I  Ve  always  had  books 
and  puzzles  and  girl  presents!  Everybody's 
thought  of  them  when  they  thought  of  me!"  he 
cried,  thumping  the  crutches  at  his  side.  "But 
this  is  a  real  present —  Now  I've  got  something 
to  show,  and  to  lend  —  something  that  is  some- 
thing!" And  on  and  on  he  chattered,  with  me 
staring  at  him  as  if  I  thought  he  was  out  of  his 
head. 

But  he  was  n't  out  of  his  head.  He  was  happy 
—  happier  than  I  Ve  ever  seen  him  since  he  was 
hurt.  And  it  still  lasts.  He  shows  those  skates  to 

88 


A  Matter  of  System 

every  one,  and  talks  and  talks  about  them,  and 
has  already  made  plans  to  let  his  dearest  friends 
try  them.  Best  of  all,  they  have  given  him  a  new 
interest  in  life,  and  he  is  actually  better.  The 
doctor  says  at  this  rate  he'll  be  using  the  skates 
himself  some  day! 

And  now,  how  can  I  thank  you  —  you  who  have 
done  this  thing,  who  have  been  so  wise  beyond 
his  mother?  I  can  only  thank  and  thank  you,  and 
send  you  my  dearest  love. 

Your  affectionate  sister, 

BERTHA 

The  senior  member  of  the  firm  of  Hawkins 
&  Hawkins  folded  the  letter  very  hurriedly  and 
tucked  it  into  its  envelope.  There  was  a  mist 
in  his  eyes,  and  a  lump  in  his  throat  —  two 
most  uncalled-for,  unwelcome  phenomena.  With 
a  determined  effort  he  cleared  his  throat  and 
began  to  speak. 

:<You  see,  Edith,"  he  observed  pompously, 
"your  fears  were  quite  groundless,  after  all. 
This  Christmas  shopping,  if  reduced  to  a  sys- 
tem— "  He  paused  suddenly.  His  wife  had 
stopped  her  sewing  and  was  looking  straight 
into  his  eyes. 


Angelus 


TO  Hephzibah  the  world  was  a  place  of 
weary  days  and  unrestful  nights,  and  life 
was  a  thing  of  dishes  that  were  never  quite 
washed  and  of  bread  that  was  never  quite 
baked  —  leaving  something  always  to  be  done. 
The  sun  rose  and  the  sun  set,  and  Hephzi- 
bah came  to  envy  the  sun.  To  her  mind,  his 
work  extended  from  the  first  level  ray  shot 
into  her  room  in  the  morning  to  the  last  rose- 
flush  at  night;  while  as  for  herself,  there  were 
the  supper  dishes  and  the  mending-basket  yet 
waiting.  To  be  sure,  she  knew,  if  she  stopped 
to  think,  that  her  sunset  must  be  a  sunrise 
somewhere  else;  but  Hephzibah  never  stopped 
to  think;  she  would  have  said,  had  you  asked 
her,  that  she  had  no  time. 

First  there  was  the  breakfast  for  Theron  and 
the  hired  man  in  the  chill  gray  dawn  of  each 
day;  —  if  one  were  to  wrest  a  living  from  the 
stones  and  sand  of  the  hillside  farm,  one  must 
be  up  and  at  work  betimes.  Then  Harry,  Tom, 

90 


Angelus 

and  Nellie  must  be  roused,  dressed,  fed,  and 
made  ready  for  the  half-mile  walk  to  the  red 
schoolhouse  at  the  cross-roads.  After  that  the 
day  was  one  blur  of  steam,  dust,  heat,  and 
stifling  fumes  from  the  oven  and  the  fat- 
kettle,  broken  always  at  regular  intervals  by 
meal-getting  and  chicken-feeding. 

What  mattered  the  blue  of  the  heavens  or 
the  green  of  the  earth  outside?  To  Hephzi- 
bah  the  one  was  "sky"  and  the  other  "grass." 
What  mattered  the  sheen  of  silver  on  the 
emerald  velvet  of  the  valley  far  below?  Heph- 
zibah  would  have  told  you  that  it  was  only 
the  sun  on  Otter  Creek  down  in  Johnson's 
meadows. 

As  for  the  nights,  even  sleep  brought  little 
relief  to  Hephzibah;  for  her  dreams  were  of 
hungry  mouths  that  could  not  be  filled,  and  of 
dirt-streaked  floors  that  would  not  come  clean. 

Last  summer  a  visitor  had  spent  a  week 
at  the  farm  —  Helen  Raymond,  Hephzibah's 
niece  from  New  York;  and  now  a  letter  had 
come  from  this  same  Helen  Raymond,  telling 
Hephzibah  to  look  out  for  a  package  by  ex- 
press. 

91 


The  Tangled  Threads 

A  package  by  express ! 

Hephzibah  laid  the  letter  down,  left  the 
dishes  cooling  in  the  pan,  and  went  out  into 
the  open  yard  where  she  could  look  far  down 
the  road  toward  the  village. 

When  had  she  received  a  package  before? 
Even  Christmas  brought  no  fascinating  boxes 
or  mysterious  bundles  to  her!  It  would  be 
interesting  to  open  it;  and  yet  —  it  probably 
held  a  book  which  she  would  have  no  time  to 
read,  or  a  pretty  waist  which  she  would  have 
no  chance  to  wear. 

Hephzibah  turned  and  walked  listlessly  back 
to  her  kitchen  and  her  dish-washing.  Twelve 
hours  later  her  unaccustomed  lips  were  spell- 
ing out  the  words  on  a  small  white  card  which 
had  come  with  a  handsomely  framed  photo- 
graph: 

The  Angelus.  Jean  Francois  Millet.   1859. 

Hephzibah  looked  from  the  card  to  the  pic- 
ture, and  from  the  picture  back  again  to  the 
card.  Gradually  an  angry  light  took  the  place 
of  the  dazed  wonder  in  her  eyes.  She  turned 
fiercely  to  her  husband. 

92 


Angelus 

"Theron,  why  did  Helen  send  me  that  pic- 
ture?" she  demanded. 

"Why,  Hetty,  I  —  I  dunno,"  faltered  the 
man,  "  'nless  she  —  she  —  wanted  ter  please 
ye." 

"Please  me!  —  please  me!"  scoffed  Hephzi- 
bah.  "Did  she  expect  to  please  me  with  a 
thing  like  that?  Look  here,  Theron,  look!" 
she  cried,  snatching  up  the  photograph  and 
bringing  it  close  to  her  husband's  face.  "Look 
at  that  woman  and  that  man  —  they're  us, 
Theron,  —  us,  I  tell  you!" 

"Oh,  come,  Hetty,"  remonstrated  Theron; 
"they  ain't  jest  the  same,  yer  know.  She 
did  n't  mean  nothin'  —  Helen  did  n't." 

"Didn't  mean  nothing!"  repeated  Hephzi- 
bah  scornfully;  "then  why  didn't  she  send 
something  pretty?  —  something  that  showed 
up  pretty  things  —  not  just  fields  and  farm- 
folks  !  Why  did  n't  she,  Theron,  —  why  did  n't 
she?" 

"Why,  Hetty,  don't!  She  —  why,  she— " 

"I  know,"  cut  in  the  woman,  a  bright  red 
flaming  into  her  cheeks.  "  Twas  'cause  she 
thought  that  was  all  we  could  understand  — 

93 


The  Tangled  Threads 

dirt,  and  old  clothes,  and  folks  that  look  like 
us!  Don't  we  dig  and  dig  like  them?  Ain't 
our  hands  twisted  and  old  and  — " 

"Hetty  —  yer  ain't  yerself!  Yer — " 

"Yes,  I  am  —  I  am!  I'm  always  myself  — 
there's  never  anything  else  I  can^be,  Theron, 
—  never!"  And  Hephzibah  threw  her  apron 
over  her  head  and  ran  from  the  room,  crying 
bitterly. 

"Well,  by  gum!"  muttered  the  man,  as  he 
dropped  heavily  into  the  nearest  chair. 

For  some  days  the  picture  stayed  on  the 
shelf  over  the  kitchen  sink,  where  it  had  been 
placed  by  Theron  as  .the  quickest  means  of  its 
disposal.  Hephzibah  did  not  seem  to  notice 
it  after  that  first  day,  and  Theron  was  most 
willing  to  let  the  matter  drop. 

It  must  have  been  a  week  after  the  pic- 
ture's arrival  that  the  minister  made  his  semi- 
yearly  call. 

"Oh,  you  have  an  Angelus!  That's  fine,"  he 
cried,  appreciatively;  —  the  minister  always 
begged  to  stay  in  Hephzibah's  kitchen,  that 
room  being  much  more  to  his  mind  than  was 
the  parlor,  carefully  guarded  from  sun  and  air. 

94 


Angelus 

"  Tine'!  —  that  thing!"  laughed  Hephzi- 
bah. 

"Aye,  that  thing,"  returned  the  man, 
quick  to  detect  the  scorn  in  her  voice;  then, 
with  an  appeal  to  the  only  side  of  her  nature 
he  thought  could  be  reached,  he  added: 
"Why,  my  dear  woman,  'that  thing,'  as  you 
call  it,  is  a  copy  of  a  picture  which  in  the  origi- 
nal was  sold  only  a  few  years  ago  for  more  than 
a  hundred  thousand  dollars  —  a  hundred  and 
fifty,  I  think." 

"Humph!  Who  could  have  bought  it!  That 
thing!"  laughed  Hephzibah  again,  and  changed 
the  subject.  But  she  remembered,  —  she  must 
have  remembered;  for,  after  the  minister  had 
gone,  she  took  the  picture  from  the  shelf  and 
carried  it  to  the  light  of  the  window. 

"A  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars,"  she 
murmured;  "and  to  think  what  I'd  do  with 
that  money!"  For  some  minutes  she  studied 
the  picture  in  silence,  then  she  sighed:  "Well, 
they  do  look  natural  like;  but  only  think  what 
a  fool  to  pay  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  for 
a  couple  of  farm-folks  out  in  a  field!" 

And  yet  —  it  was  not  to  the  kitchen  shelf 
95 


The  Tangled  Threads 

Hephzibah  carried  the  picture  that  night,  but 
to  the  parlor  —  the  somber,  sacred  parlor. 
There  she  propped  it  up  on  the  center-table 
among  plush  photograph-albums  and  crocheted 
mats  —  the  dearest  of  Hephzibah's  treasures. 

Hephzibah  could  scarcely  have  explained  it 
herself,  but  after  the  minister's  call  that  day 
she  fell  into  the  way  of  going  often  into 
the  parlor  to  look  at  her  picture.  At  first  its 
famous  price  graced  it  with  a  halo  of  gold; 
but  in  time  this  was  forgotten,  and  the  picture 
itself,  with  its  silent,  bowed  figures,  appealed 
to  her  with  a  power  she  could  not  understand. 

"There's  a  story  to  it  —  I  know  there's  a 
story  to  it!"  she  cried  at  last  one  day;  and 
forthwith  she  hunted  up  an  old  lead-pencil 
stub  and  a  bit  of  yellowed  note-paper. 

It  was  a  long  hour  Hephzibah  spent  then, 
an  hour  of  labored  thinking  and  of  careful 
guiding  of  cramped  fingers  along  an  unfa- 
miliar way;  yet  the  completed  note,  when  it 
reached  Helen  Raymond's  hands,  was  wonder- 
fully short. 

The  return  letter  was  long,  and,  though 
Hephzibah  did  not  know  it,  represented  hours 

96 


Angelus 

of  research  in  bookstores  and  in  libraries.  It 
answered  not  only  Hephzibah's  questions,  but 
attempted  to  respond  to  the  longing  and  heart- 
hunger  Miss  Raymond  was  sure  she  detected 
between  the  lines  of  Hephzibah's  note.  Twelve 
hours  after  it  was  written,  Hephzibah  was  on 
her  knees  before  the  picture. 

"  I  know  you  now  —  I  know  you ! "  she  whis- 
pered exultingly.  "I  know  why  you're  real  and 
true.  Your  master  who  painted  you  was  like 
us  once  —  like  us,  and  like  you !  He  knew  what 
it  was  to  dig  and  dig;  he  knew  what  it  was  to 
work  and  work  until  his  back  and  his  head  and 
his  feet  and  his  hands  ached  and  ached  —  he 
knew !  And  so  he  painted  you ! 

"She  says  you're  praying;  that  you've 
stopped  your  work  and  'turned  to  higher 
things.'  She  says  we  all  should  have  an  An- 
gelus in  our  lives  each  day.  Good  God !  —  as 
if  she  knew!"  —  Hephzibah  was  on  her  feet 
now,  her  hands  to  her  head. 

"An  Angelus  ?  —  me  ? "  continued  the  woman 
scornfully.  "And  where?  The  dish-pan?  —  the 
wash-tub  ?  —  the  chicken-yard  ?  A  fine  Angelus, 
that!  And  yet"  —  Hephzibah  dropped  to  her 

97 


The  Tangled  Threads 

knees  again  —  "you  look  so  quiet,  so  peaceful, 
and,  oh,  so —  rested!" 

"For  the  land's  sake,  Hetty,  what  be  you 
doin'?  Have  you  gone  clean  crazy?" —  It  was 
Theron  in  the  parlor  doorway. 

Hephzibah  rose  wearily  to  her  feet.  "  Some- 
times I  think  I  have,  Theron,"  she  said. 

"Well,"  — he  hesitated,  — "ain't  it  'most 
—  supper-time  ? " 

"I  s'pose  'tis,"  she  assented,  listlessly,  and 
dragged  herself  from  the  room. 

It  was  not  long  after  this  that  the  picture 
disappeared  from  the  parlor.  Hephzibah  had 
borne  it  very  carefully  to  her  room  and  hung  it 
on  the  wall  at  the  foot  of  her  bed,  where  her 
eyes  would  open  upon  it  the  first  thing  every 
morning.  Each  day  she  talked  to  it,  and  each 
day  it  grew  to  be  more  and  more  a  part  of  her 
very  self.  Not  until  the  picture  had  been  there 
a  week,  however,  did  she  suddenly  realize  that 
it  represented  the  twilight  hour;  then,  like  a 
flash  of  light,  came  her  inspiration. 

"It's  at  sunset  —  I'll  go  out  at  sunset!  Now 
my  Angelus  will  come  to  me,"  she  cried  softly. 
"I  know  it  will!" 

98 


SOMETIMES  SHE  WOULD  TURN  TO  THE  RIGHT  AND  PAUSE 
AT  THE  BROW  OF  THE  HILL 


Angelas 

Then  did  the  little  hillside  farmhouse  see 
strange  sights  indeed.  Each  night,  as  the  sun 
dropped  behind  the  far-away  hills,  Hephzibah 
left  her  work  and  passed  through  the  kitchen 
door,  her  face  uplifted,  and  her  eyes  on  the  dis- 
tant sky-line. 

Sometimes  she  would  turn  to  the  left  to  the 
open  field  and  stand  there  motionless,  uncon- 
sciously falling  into  the  reverent  attitude  now 
so  familiar  to  her;  sometimes  she  would  turn 
to  the  right  and  pause  at  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
where  the  valley  in  all  its  panorama  of  loveli- 
ness lay  before  her;  and  sometimes  she  would 
walk  straight  ahead  to  the  old  tumble-down 
gate  where  she  might  face  the  west  and  watch 
the  rose  change  to  palest  amber  in  the  sky. 
'.  At  first  her  eyes  saw  but  grass,  sky,  and  dull- 
brown  earth,  and  her  thoughts  turned  in  bitter- 
ness to  her  unfinished  tasks;  but  gradually  the 
witchery  of  the  summer  night  entered  her  soul 
and  left  room  for  little  else.  Strange  faces, 
peeping  in  and  out  of  the  clouds,  looked  at  her 
from  the  sky;  and  fantastic  figures,  clothed  in 
the  evening  mist,  swept  up  the  valley  to  her 
feet.  The  grass  assumed  a  deeper  green,  and 

99 


The  Tangled  Threads 

the  trees  stood  out  like  sentinels  along  the  hill- 
top behind  the  house.  Even  when  she  turned 
and  went  back  to  the  kitchen,  and  took  upon 
herself  once  more  the  accustomed  tasks,  her 
eyes  still  faintly  glowed  with  the  memory  of 
what  they  had  seen. 

"It  do  beat  all,"  said  Theron  a  month  later 
to  Helen  Raymond,  who  was  again  a  visitor  at 
the  farm,  —  "it  do  beat  all,  Helen,  what's 
come  over  yer  aunt.  She  used  ter  be  nervous- 
like,  and  fretted,  an'  things  never  went  ter  suit. 
Now  she's  calm,  an'  her  eyes  kind  o'  shine  — 
'specially  when  she  comes  in  from  one  of  them 
tramps  of  hers  outdoors.  She  says  it's  her  An- 
gelus  —  if  ye  know  what  that  is ;  but  it  strikes 
me  as  mighty  queer  —  it  do,  Helen,  it  do!" 

And  Helen  smiled,  content. 


The  Apple  of  Her  Eye 

IT  rained.  It  had  rained  all  day.  To  Helen 
Raymond,  spatting  along  the  wet  slipperi- 
ness  of  the  drenched  pavements,  it  seemed  as 
if  it  had  always  rained,  and  always  would 
rain. 

Helen  was  tired,  blue,  and  ashamed  — 
ashamed  because  she  was.  blue;  blue  because 
she  was  tired;  and  tired  because  —  wearily  her 
mind  reviewed  her  day. 

She  had  dragged  herself  out  of  bed  at  half- 
past  five,  but  even  then  her  simple  toilet  had 
been  hastened  to  an  untidy  half  completion  by 
the  querulous  insistence  of  her  mother's  fre- 
quent "You  know,  Helen,  — you  must  know 
how  utterly  impossible  it  is  for  me  to  lift  my 
head  until  I  've  had  my  coffee !  Are  n't  you 
nearly  ready?"  Mrs.  Raymond  had  wakened 
earlier  than  usual  that  morning,  and  she  could 
never  endure  to  lie  in  bed  when  not  asleep. 

With  one  shoe  unbuttoned  and  no  collar  on, 
Helen  had  prepared  the  coffee;  then  had  come 

101 


The  Tangled  Threads 

the  delicate  task  of  getting  the  semi-invalid  up 
and  dressed,  with  hair  smoothed  to  the  desired 
satiny  texture.  The  hair  had  refused  to  smooth, 
however,  this  morning;  buttons  had  come  off, 
too,  and  strings  had  perversely  knotted  until 
Helen's  patience  had  almost  snapped  —  al- 
most, but  not  quite.  In  the  end  her  own  break- 
fast, and  the  tidying  of  herself  and  the  little 
four-room  flat,  had  degenerated  into  a  breath- 
less scramble  broken  by  remorseful  apologies 
to  her  mother,  in  response  to  which  Mrs.  Ray- 
mond only  sighed : 

"Oh,  of  course,  it  does  n't  matter;  but  you 
know  how  haste  and  confusion  annoy  me,  and 
how  bad  it  is  for  me!" 

It  had  all  resulted  as  Helen  had  feared  that 
it  would  result — she  was  late;  and  tardiness 
at  Henderson  &  Henderson's  meant  a  sharp 
reprimand,  and  in  time,  a  fine.  Helen's  place 
in  the  huge  department  store  was  behind  a 
counter  where  spangled  nets  and  embroidered 
chiffons  were  sold.  It  had  seemed  to  Helen  to- 
day that  half  the  world  must  be  giving  a  ball 
to  which  the  other  half  was  invited,  so  con- 
stant—  in  spite  of  the  rain  —  were  the  calls 

102 


The  Apple  of  Her  Eye 

for  her  wares.  The  girl  told  herself  bitterly 
that  it  would  not  be  so  unendurable  were  she 
handling  anything  but  those  filmy,  glittering 
stuffs  that  spoke  so  loudly  of  youth  and  love 
and  laughter.  If  it  were  only  gray  socks  and 
kitchen  kettles  that  she  tended!  At  least  she 
would  be  spared  the  sight  of  those  merry,  girl- 
ish faces,  and  the  sound  of  those  care-free, 
laughing  voices.  At  least  she  would  not  have 
all  day  before  her  eyes  the  slender,  gloved  fin- 
gers which  she  knew  were  as  fair  and  delicate 
as  the  fabrics  they  so  ruthlessly  tossed  from 
side  to  side. 

Annoyances  at  the  counter  had  been  more 
frequent  to-day  than  usual,  Helen  thought. 
Perhaps  the  rain  had  made  people  cross.  What- 
ever it  was,  the  hurried  woman  had  been  more 
hurried,  and  the  insolent  woman  more  unbear- 
able. There  had  been,  too,  an  irritating  repeti- 
tion of  the  woman  who  was  "just  looking,"  and 
of  her  sister  who  "didn't  know";  "wasn't 
quite  sure";  but  "guessed  that  would  n't  do." 
Consequently  Helen's  list  of  sales  had  been 
short  in  spite  of  her  incessant  labor  —  and  the 
list  of  sales  was  what  Henderson  &  Henderson 

103 


The  Tangled  Threads 

looked  at  when  a  promotion  was  being  con- 
sidered. 

And  through  it  all,  hour  after  hour,  there 
had  been  the  shimmer  of  the  spangles,  the  light 
chatter  of  coming  balls  and  weddings,  the 
merry  voices  of  care-free  girls  —  the  youth, 
and  love,  and  laughter. 

"Youth,  and  love,  and  laughter."  Uncon- 
sciously Helen  repeated  the  words  aloud;  then 
she  smiled  bitterly  as  she  applied  them  to  her- 
self. Youth? — she  was  twenty-five.  Love?  — 
the  grocer?  the  milkman?  the  floorwalker?  oh, 
yes,  and  there  was  the  postman.  Laughter? — • 
she  could  not  remember  when  she  had  seen  any- 
thing funny —  really  funny  enough  to  laugh  at. 
j  Of  all  this  Helen  thought  as  she  plodded 
wearily  homeward;  of  this,  and  more.  At  home 
there  v/ould  be  supper  to  prepare,  her  mother 
to  get  to  bed,  and  the  noon  dishes  to  clear  away. 
Helen  drew  in  her  breath  sharply  as  she  thought 
of  the  dinner.  She  hoped  that  it  had  not  been 
codfish-and-cream  to-day.  If  it  had,  she  must 
speak  to  Mrs.  Mason.  Codfish  twice  a  week 
might  do,  but  five  times!  (Mrs.  Mason  was 
the  neighbor  who,  for  a  small  sum  each  day, 

104 


The  Apple  of  Her  Eye 

brought  Mrs.  Raymond  her  dinner  fully  cooked.) 
There  was  a  waist  to  iron  and  some  mending 
to  do.  Helen  remembered  that.  There  would 
be  time,  however,  for  it  all,  she  thought;  that 
is,  if  it  should  not  unfortunately  be  one  of 
her  mother's  wakeful  evenings  when  talking  — 
and  on  one  subject  —  was  the  only  thing  that 
would  soothe  her. 

Helen  sighed  now.  She  was  almost  home, 
but  involuntarily  her  speed  slackened.  She 
became  suddenly  more  acutely  aware  of  the 
dreary  flapping  of  her  wet  skirts  against  her 
ankles,  and  of  the  swish  of  the  water  as  it 
sucked  itself  into  the  hole  at  the  heel  of  her 
left  overshoe.  The  wind  whistled  through  an 
alleyway  in  a  startling  swoop  and  nearly 
wrenched  her  umbrella  from  her  half-numbed 
fingers,  but  still  her  step  lagged.  The  rain 
slapped  her  face  smartly  as  the  umbrella  ca- 
reened, but  even  that  did  not  spur  her  to  haste. 
Unmistakably  she  dreaded  to  go  home  —  and 
it  was  at  this  realization  that  Helen's  shame 
deepened  into  a  dull  red  on  her  cheeks;  as  if 
any  girl,  any  right-hearted  girl,  should  mind  a 
mother's  talk  of  her  only  son! 

105 


The  Tangled  Threads 

At  the  shabby  door  of  the  apartment  house 
Helen  half  closed  her  umbrella  and  shook  it 
fiercely.  Then,  as  if  freeing  herself  from  some- 
thing as  obnoxious  as  was  the  rain,  she  threw 
back  her  head  and  shook  that,  too.  A  moment 
later,  carefully  carrying  the  dripping  umbrella, 
she  hurried  up  three  flights  of  stairs  and  un- 
locked the  door  of  the  rear  suite. 

"My,  but  it  sprinkles!  Did  you  know  it?" 
she  cried  cheerily  to  the  little  woman  sitting  by 
the  west  window. 

"  ' Sprinkles'!  Helen,  how  can  you  speak 
like  that  when  you  know  what  a  dreadful  day 
it  is!"  fretted  the  woman.  "But  then,  you 
don't  know.  You  never  do  know.  If  you  had 
to  just  sit  here  and  stare  and  stare  and  stare  at 
that  rain  all  day,  as  I  do,  perhaps  you  would 
know." 

"Perhaps,"  smiled  Helen  oddly — she  was 
staring  just  then  at  the  havoc  that  that  same 
rain  had  wrought  in  what  had  been  a  fairly 
good  hat. 

Her  mother's  glance  followed  hers. 

"Helen,  that  can't  be  —  your  hat!"  cried  the 
woman,  aghast. 

106 


The  Apple  of  Her  Eye 

Helen  smiled  quizzically.  "Do  you  know 
that's  exactly  what  I  was  thinking  myself, 
mother!  It  can't  be  —  but  it  is." 

"But  it's  ruined,  utterly  ruined!" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"And  you  haven't  any  other  that's  really 
decent!" 

"No,  ma'am." 

The  woman  sighed  impatiently.  "Helen,  how 
can  you  answer  like  that  when  you  know  what 
it  means  to  spoil  that  hat?  Can't  anything 
dampen  your  absurd  high  spirits  ? " 

"'High  spirits'!"  breathed  the  girl.  A  quick 
flash  leaped  to  her  eyes.  Her  lips  parted  an- 
grily; then,  as  suddenly,  they  snapped  close 
shut.  In  another  minute  she  had  turned  and 
left  the  room  quietly. 

Clothed  in  dry  garments  a  little  later,  Helen 
set  about  the  evening's  tasks.  At  the  first  turn 
in  the  little  room  that  served  for  both  kitchen 
and  dining-room  she  found  the  dinner  dishes 
waiting  to  be  cleared  from  the  table  —  and 
there  were  unmistakable  evidences  of  codfish- 
and-cream.  As  she  expected,  she  had  not  long 
to  wait. 

107 


The  Tangled  Threads 

"Helen,"  called  a  doleful  voice  from  the  sit- 
ting-room. 

"Yes,  mother." 

"She  brought  codfish  again  to-day  —  five 
times  this  week;  and  you  know  how  I  dislike 
codfish!" 

"Yes,  I  know,  dear.  I'm  so  sorry!" 

"'Sorry'!  But  that  does  n't  feed  me.  You 
must  speak  to  her,  Helen.  I  can't  eat  codfish 
like  that.  You  must  speak  to-night  when  you 
take  the  dishes  back." 

"Very  well,  mother;  but  —  well,  you  know 
we  don't  pay  very  much." 

"Then  pay  more.  I'm  sure  I  shouldn't 
think  you'd  grudge  me  enough  to  eat,  Helen." 

"Mother!  How  can  you  say  a  thing  like 
that!"  Helen's  voice  shook.  She  paused  a  mo- 
ment, a  dish  half-dried  in  her  hands;  but  from 
the  other  room  came  only  silence. 

Supper  that  night  was  prepared  with  un- 
usual care.  There  was  hot  corncake,  too,  — 
Mrs.  Raymond  liked  hot  corncake.  It  was  a 
little  late,  it  is  true;  Helen  had  not  planned  for 
the  corncake  at  first  —  but  there  was  the  cod- 
fish. If  the  poor  dear  had  had  nothing  but  cod- 

108 


The  Apple  of  Her  Eye 

fish!  .  .  .  Helen  opened  a  jar  of  the  treasured 
peach  preserves,  too;  indeed,  the  entire  sup- 
per table  from  the  courageous  little  fern  in  the 
middle  to  the  "company  china"  cup  at  Mrs. 
Raymond's  plate  was  a  remorseful  apology  for 
that  midday  codfish.  If  Mrs.  Raymond  no- 
ticed this,  she  gave  no  sign.  Without  com- 
ment, she  ate  the  corncake  and  the  peach  pre- 
serves, and  drank  her  tea  from  the  china  cup; 
with  Mrs.  Raymond  only  the  codfish  of  one's 
daily  life  merited  comment. 
\  It  was  at  the  supper  table  that  Helen's 
mother  brought  out  the  letter. 

"You  don't  ask,  nor  seem  to  care,"  she  be- 
gan with  a  curious  air  of  injured  triumph,  "but 
I've  got  a  letter  from  Herbert." 

The  younger  woman  flushed. 

"Why,  of  course,  I  care,"  she  retorted  cheer- 
ily. "What  does  he  say?" 

"He  wrote  it  several  days  ago.  It  got  mis- 
sent.  But  it's  such  a  nice  letter!" 

"They  always  are." 

"It  asks  particularly  how  I  am,  and  says  he's 
sorry  I  have  to  suffer  so.  He  cares." 

Only    the    swift    red    in    Helen's    cheeks 
109 


The  Tangled  Threads 

showed  that  the  daughter  understood  the 
emphasis. 

"Of  course  he  cares,"  she  answered  smoothly. 

"And  he  sent  me  a  present,  too  —  money!" 
Mrs.  Raymond's  usually  fretful  whine  carried 
a  ring  of  exultation. 

Helen  lifted  her  head  eagerly. 

"Money?" 

"Yes.  A  new  crisp  dollar  bill.  He  told  me 
to  get  something  pretty  —  some  little  trinket 
that  I'd  like." 

"But,  a  dollar  —  only  a  dollar,"  murmured 
Helen.  "Now  you're  needing  a  wrapper,  but 
that—" 

"A  wrapper,  indeed!"  interrupted  Mrs.  Ray- 
mond in  fine  scorn.  "A  wrapper  is  n't  a  'trin- 
ket' for  me!  I'd  have  wrappers  anyway,  of 
course.  He  said  to  buy  something  pretty; 
something  I'd  like.  But  then,  I  might  have 
known.  You  never  think  I  need  anything  but 
wrappers  and  —  and  codfish !  I  —  I  'm  glad 
I've  got  one  child  that  —  that  appreciates!" 
And  Mrs.  Raymond  lifted  her  handkerchief 
to  her  eyes. 

Across  the  table  Helen  caught  her  lower  lip 
no 


The  Apple  of  Her  Eye 

between  her  teeth.  For  a  moment  she  did  not 
speak;  then  very  gently  she  said :  — 

"Mother,  you  did  n't  quite  mean  that, 
I  'm  sure.  You  know  very  well  that  I  — 
I'd  dress  you  in  silks  and  velvets,  and  feed 
you  on  strawberries  and  cream,  if  I  could. 
It 's  only  that  —  that  —  But  never  mind.  Use 
the  dollar  as  you  please,  dear.  Is  n't  there 
something  —  some  little  thing  you  would 
like?" 

Mrs.  Raymond  lowered  her  handkerchief. 
Her  grieved  eyes  looked  reproachfully  across 
at  her  daughter. 

"I'd  thought  of  —  a  tie;  a  lace  tie  with 
pretty  ends;  a  nice  tie.  You  know  how  I  like 
nice  things!" 

"Of  course,  you  do;  and  you  shall  have  it, 
too,"  cried  Helen.  "I'll  bring  some  home  to- 
morrow night  for  you  to  select  from.  Now  that 
will  be  fine,  won't  it?" 

The  other  drew  a  resigned  sigh. 

"  Tine'!  That's  just  like  you,  Helen.  You 

never  appreciate  — •  never  realize.  Perhaps  you 

do  think  it's  'fine'  to  stay  mewed  up  at  home 

here  and  have  ties  brought  to  you  instead  of 

in 


The  Tangled  Threads 

going  out  yourself  to  the  store  and  buying 
them,  like  other  women ! " 

"Oh,  but  just  don't  look  at  it  that  way," 
retorted  Helen  in  a  cheerful  voice.  "Just  im- 
agine you're  a  queen,  or  a  president's  wife,  or 
a  multi-millionairess  who  is  sitting  at  home 
in  state  to  do  her  shopping  just  because  she 
wishes  to  avoid  the  vulgar  crowds  in  the  stores; 
eh,  mother  dear?" 

"Mother  dear"  sniffed  disdainfully. 

"Really,  Helen,"  she  complained,  "you  are 
impossible.  One  would  think  you  might  have 
some  sympathy,  some  consideration  for  my 
feelings!  There's  your  brother,  now.  He's  all 
sympathy.  Look  at  his  letter.  Think  of  that 
dollar  he  sent  me  —  just  a  little  thing  to  give 
me  happiness.  And  he's  always  doing  such 
things.  Did  n't  he  remember  how  I  loved  pep- 
permints, and  give  me  a  whole  box  at  Christ- 
mas?" 

Helen  did  not  answer.  As  well  she  knew,  she 
did  not  need  to.  Her  mother,  once  started  on 
this  subject,  asked  only  for  a  listener.  Wearily 
the  girl  rose  to  her  feet  and  began  to  clear  the 
table. 

112 


The  Apple  of  Her  Eye 

"And  it  is  n't  as  if  he  did  n't  have  his  hands 
full,  just  running  over  full  with  his  business  and 
all,"  continued  Mrs.  Raymond.  "You  know 
how  successful  he  is,  Helen.  Now  there's  that 
club  —  what  was  it,  president  or  treasurer  that 
they  made  him?  Anyhow,  it  was  something; 
and  that  shows  how  popular  he  is.  And  you 
know  every  letter  tells  us  of  something  new. 
I  'm  sure  it  is  n't  any  wonder  I  'm  proud  of  him; 
and  relieved,  too  —  I  did  hope  some  one  of  my 
children  would  amount  to  something;  and  I'm 
sure  Herbert  has." 

There  was  a  pause.  Herbert 's  sister  was 
washing  the  dishes  now,  hurriedly,  nervously. 
Herbert's  mother  watched  her  with  dissatisfied 
eyes. 

"Now  there's  you,  Helen,  and  your  music," 
she  began  again,  after  a  long  sigh.  "You  know 
how  disappointed  I  was  about  that." 

"Oh,  but  piano  practice  does  n't  help  to  sell 
goods  across  the  counter,"  observed  Helen 
dully.  "At  least,  I  never  heard  that  it  did." 

"  'Sell  goods,'  "  moaned  the  other.  "Al- 
ways something  about  selling  goods!  Helen, 
can't  you  get  your  mind  for  one  moment  off 

"3 


The  Tangled  Threads 

that  dreadful  store,  and  think  of  something 
higher?" 

"But  it's  the  store  that  brings  us  in  our 
bread  and  butter  —  and  codfish,"  added  Helen, 
half  under  her  breath. 

It  was  a  foolish  allusion,  born  of  a  much- 
tried  spirit;  and  Helen  regretted  the  words  the 
moment  they  had  left  her  lips. 

"Yes,  that's  exactly  what  it  brings  —  cod- 
fish," gloomed  Mrs.  Raymond.  "I'm  glad  you 
at  least  realize  that." 

There  was  no  reply.  Helen  was  working  faster 
now.  Her  cheeks  were  pink,  and  her  hands 
trembled.  As  soon  as  possible  she  piled  Mrs. 
Mason's  dinner  dishes  neatly  on  the  tray  and 
hurried  with  them  to  the  outer  door  of  the  suite. 

"Now,  Helen,  don't  stay,"  called  her  mother. 
"You  know  how  much  I'm  alone,  and  I  just 
simply  can't  go  to  bed  yet.  I'm  not  one  bit 
sleepy." 

"No,  mother."  The  voice  was  calm,  and  the 
door  shut  quietly;  but  in  the  hall  Helen  paused 
at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  flushed  and  palpitating. 

"  I  wonder  —  if  it  would  do  any  good  —  if 
I  should  —  throw  them!"  she  choked  hysteri- 

114 


The  Apple  of  Her  Eye 

cally,  the  tray  raised  high  in  her  hands.  Then 
with  a  little  shamed  sob  she  lowered  the  tray 
and  hurried  downstairs  to  the  apartment  be- 
low. 

"It's  only  me,  Mrs.  Mason,  with  the  dishes," 
she  said  a  moment  later,  as  her  neighbor  peered 
out  into  the  hall  in  answer  to  the  knock  at  the 
door.  "I'm  a  little  late  to-night." 

"Oh,  to  be  sure,  Miss  Raymond;  come  in  — • 
come  in.  Why,  child,  what  ails  you?"  cried 
the  woman,  as  Helen  stepped  into  the  light. 

"Ails  me?  Why,  nothing,"  laughed  the  girl 
evasively.  "Shall  I  put  the  things  here?" 

As  she  set  the  tray  down  and  turned  to  go, 
the  elder  woman,  by  a  sudden  movement,  con- 
fronted her. 

"See  here,  Miss  Helen,  it  ain't  none  o'  my 
business,  I  know,  but  I've  just  got  to  speak. 
Your  eyes  are  all  teary,  and  your  cheeks  have 
got  two  red  spots  in  'em.  You've  been  cryin'. 
I  know  you  have.  You're  so  thin  I  could  just 
blow  you  over  with  a  good  big  breath.  And  I 
know  what's  the  matter.  You're  all  wore  out. 
You  're  doin'  too  much.  No  mortal  woman  can 
work  both  day  and  night!" 

"5 


The  Tangled  Threads 

"But  I  don't  —  quite,"  stammered  the  girl 
"Besides,  there  is  so  much  to  be  done.  You 
know,  mother  —  though  she  is  n't  very  sick 
—  can  do  but  little  for  herself." 

"Yes,  I  know  she  don't  —  seem  to.  But  is 
n't  there  some  one  else  that  could  help?" 

The  girl  stirred  restlessly.  Her  eyes  sought 
for  a  means  of  escape. 

"Why,  no,  of  course  not.  There  is  n't  any 
one,"  she  murmured.  "You  are  very  kind, 
really,  Mrs.  Mason,  but  I  must  go  —  now." 

The  other  did  not  move.  She  was  standing 
directly  before  the  hall  door. 

"There  's  —  your  brother." 

The  girl  lifted  her  head  quickly.  A  look  that 
was  almost  fear  came  into  her  eyes. 

"Why,  how  did  you  know  that  I  had  —  a 
brother?" 

"Know  it!"  scoffed  Mrs.  Mason.  "I  have 
known  your  mother  for  a  year  —  ever  since 
she  moved  here;  and  as  if  a  body  could  know 
her  and  not  hear  of  him  !  He 's  the  very  apple 
of  her  eye.  Why  can't  he  —  help?  Would  n't 
he,  if  he  knew?" 

"Why,  Mrs.  Mason,  of  course!  He  has  — 
116 


The  Apple  of  Her  Eye 

he  does,"  declared  the  girl  quickly,  the  red 
deepening  in  her  cheeks.  "He  —  he  sent  her 
money  only  to-day." 

"Yes,  I  know;  she  told  me  —  of  that."  Mrs. 
Mason's  voice  was  significant  in  its  smooth- 
ness. "Your  mother  said  she  was  going  to  get 
her  —  a  tie." 

"Yes,  a  tie,"  repeated  Helen,  with  feverish 
lightness;  "lace,  you  know.  Mother  does  so 
love  pretty  things !  Oh,  and  by  the  way,"  hur- 
ried on  the  girl  breathlessly,  "if  you  don't  mind 
—  about  the  dinners,  you  know.  Mother 
does  n't  care  for  codfish-and-cream,  and  if  you 
could  just  substitute  something  else,  I'll  pay 
more,  of  course!  I'd  expect  to  do  that.  I've 
been  thinking  for  some  time  that  you  ought 
to  have  at  least  ten  cents  a  day  more  —  if  you 
could  manage  —  on  that.  And  —  thank  you; 
if  you  would  remember  about  —  the  codfish, 
and  now  I  really  must  —  go!"  she  finished. 
And  before  Mrs.  Mason  knew  quite  what  had 
happened  a  flying  figure  had  darted  by  her 
through  the  half-open  doorway. 

"Well,  of  all  things!  Now  what  have  I  said?" 
muttered  the  puzzled  woman,  staring  after 

117 


The  Tangled  Threads 

her  visitor.  "Ten  cents  a  day  more,  indeed! 
And  where,  for  the  land's  sake,  is  the  poor  lamb 
-going  to  find  that?" 

Long  hours  later  in  the  Raymond  flat,  after 
the  mending  was  done,  the  waist  ironed,  and 
the  mother's  querulous  tongue  had  been  si- 
lenced by  sleep,  the  "poor  lamb"  sat  down 
with  her  little  account  book  and  tried  to  dis- 
cover just  that  —  where  she  was  going  to  find 
the  extra  ten  cents  a  day  to  buy  off  Mrs. 
Mason's  codfish. 

It  did  not  rain  the  next  morning.  The  sun 
shone,  indeed,  as  if  it  never  had  rained,  and 
never  would  rain.  In  Helen  Raymond's  soul  a 
deeper  shame  than  ever  sent  the  blue  devils 
skulking  into  the  farthermost  corners  —  as  if 
it  were  anything  but  a  matter  for  the  heartiest 
congratulations  that  one's  mother  had  at  least 
one  child  who  had  proved  not  to  be  a  disap- 
pointment to  her!  And  very  blithely,  to  cheat 
the  last  one  of  the  little  indigo  spirits,  the  girl 
resolutely  uptilted  her  chin,  and  began  her  day. 

It  was  not  unlike  the  days  that  had  gone  be- 
fore. There  was  the  same  apologetic  rush  in 
the  morning,  the  same  monotonous  succession 

118 


The  Apple  of  Her  Eye 

of  buyers  and  near-buyers  at  the  counter,  the 
same  glitter  and  sparkle  and  chatter  —  the 
youth,  and  love,  and  laughter.  Then  at  night 
came  the  surprise. 

Helen  Raymond  went  home  to  find  the  little 
flat  dominated  by  a  new  presence,  a  presence  so 
big  and  breezy  that  unconsciously  she  sniffed 
the  air  as  if  she  were  entering  a  pine  grove  in- 
stead of  a  stuffy,  four-room  city  flat. 

"Helen,  he  knows  Herbert,  my  Herbert," 
announced  Mrs.  Raymond  rapturously;  and 
as  she  seemed  to  think  no  further  introduction 
was  necessary,  the  young  man  rose  to  his  feet 
and  added  with  a  smile :  — 

"My  name  is  Carroll  —  Jack  Carroll;  Miss 
Raymond,  I  suppose.  Your  brother  —  er  — 
suggested  that  I  call,  as  I  was  in  the  city." 

"Of  course  you'd  call,"  chirruped  Mrs.  Ray- 
mond. "As  if  we  were  n't  always  glad  to  see 
any  friend  of  my  boy's.  Helen,  why  don't  you 
say  something?  Why  don't  you  welcome  Mr. 
Carroll?" 

i  "  I  have  n't  had  much  chance  yet,  mother," 
smiled  the  girl,  in  some  embarrassment.  "Per- 
haps I  —  I  have  n't  caught  my  breath." 

119 


The  Tangled  Threads 

"Not  that  Mr.  Carroll  ought  to  mind,  of 
course,"  resumed  Mrs.  Raymond  plaintively. 
"And  he  won't  when  he  knows  you,  and  sees 
how  moderate  you  are.  You  know  Herbert 
is  so  quick,"  she  added,  turning  to  Herbert's 
friend. 

"Is  he?"  murmured  the  man;  and  at  the 
odd  something  in  his  voice  Helen  looked  up 
quickly  to  find  the  stranger's  eyes  full  upon  her. 
"You  see,  I'm  not  sure,  after  all,  that  I  do 
know  Herbert,"  he  continued  lightly,  still  with 
that  odd  something  in  his  voice.  "Herbert's 
mother  has  been  telling  me  lots  of  things  — 
about  Herbert." 

"Yes;  we've  been  having  such  a  nice 
visit  together,"  sighed  Mrs.  Raymond.  "You 
see,  he  understands,  Helen,  —  Mr.  Carroll 
does." 

Again  Helen  glanced  up  and  met  the  stran- 
ger's eyes.  She  caught  her  breath  sharply  and 
looked  away. 

"Of  course  he  understands,"  she  cried,  in  a 
voice  that  was  not  quite  steady.  "  If  he  knew 
you  better,  mother  dear,  he  would  know  that 
there  could  n't  be  any  nicer  subject  than 

1 20 


The  Apple  of  Her  Eye 

Herbert  to  talk  about  —  Herbert  and  the  fine 
things  he  has  done!"  There  was  no  bitterness, 
no  sarcasm,  in  tone  or  manner.  There  was  only 
a  frightened  little  pleading,  a  warding-off,  as 
of  some  unknown,  threatening  danger.  "Of 
course,  Mr.  Carroll  understands,"  she  finished; 
and  this  time  she  turned  and  looked  straight 
into  the  stranger's  eyes  unswervingly. 

"I  understand,"  he  nodded  gravely. 

And  yet  —  it  was  not  of  Herbert  that  he 
talked  during  the  next  ten  minutes.  It  was  of 
Mrs.  Raymond  and  her  daughter,  of  their  life 
at  home  and  at  the  store.  It  was  a  gay  ten  min- 
utes, for  the  man  laughed  at  the  whimsical 
playfulness  with  which  Miss  Raymond  set  off 
the  pitiful  little  tale  of  the  daily  struggle  for 
existence.  If  he  detected  the  nervousness  in 
the  telling,  he  did  not  show  it.  He  did  frown 
once;  but  that  was  when  Herbert's  mother 
sighed  apologetically:  — 

"You  must  n't  mind  all  she  says,  Mr.  Car- 
roll. Helen  never  did  seem  to  realize  the  seri- 
ous side  of  life,  nor  what  I  suffer;  but  that 
is  Helen's  way." 

"After  all,  it  must  be  a  way  that  helps 

121 


The  Tangled  Threads 

smooth  things  over  some,"  he  had  retorted 
warmly. 

And  there  the  matter  had  ended  —  except  in 
Helen's  memory:  there  it  bade  fair  to  remain 
long,  indeed. 

At  the  end  of  the  ten  minutes,  Herbert's 
friend  rose  to  his  feet  and  said  that  he  must  go. 
He  added  that  he  would  come  again,  if  he 
might;  and  to  Miss  Raymond  he  said  very  low 
—  but  very  impressively  —  that  she  would 
see  him  soon,  very  soon.  It  was  no  surprise, 
therefore,  to  Helen,  to  encounter  the  big,  tall 
fellow  not  twenty  feet  from  her  doorway  when 
she  started  for  the  store  the  next  morning. 

His  clean-cut  face  flushed  painfully  as  he 
advanced;  but  the  girl  did  not  change  color. 

"Good-morning.  I  thought  you'd  do  this," 
she  began  hurriedly.  "We  can  talk  as  we  walk. 
Now,  tell  me,  please,  quick.  What  is  it  about 
-Herbert?" 

"Then  you  — know?" 

"Not  much;  only  suspect.  I  know  every- 
thing is  n't  quite  —  right." 

"But  your  mother  doesn't  know  —  even 
that  much?" 

122 


The  Apple  of  Her  Eye 

"No,  no!  You  saw  that,  didn't  you?  I  was 
so  glad  you  did,  and  did  n't  speak !  He  is  her 
pet,  and  she's  so  proud  of  him!" 

"Yes,  I  know,"  nodded  the  man  grimly.  "I 
saw  —  that." 

The  girl  lifted  her  chin. 

"And  mother  has  a  right  to  be  proud  of  him. 
Herbert  is  fine.  It  is  only  that  — •  that  — "  She 
weakened  perceptibly.  "  Was  it — money  ?' '  she 
faltered. 

"Y-yes."  Carroll  spoke  with  evident  reluc- 
tance. His  eyes  looked  down  almost  tenderly 
at  the  girl  with  the  still  bravely  uptilted  chin. 
"  It  —  it  is  rather  serious  this  time.  He  asked 
me  to  call  and  —  and  make  it  plain  to  you.  I 
had  told  him  I  was  coming  up  to  town  on  busi- 
ness, and  I  promised.  But  —  good  Heavens, 
Miss  Raymond,  I  —  I  can't  tell  you!" 

"But  you  must.  I'll  have  to  know,"  cried 
the  girl  sharply.  All  the  pride  had  fled  now. 
"And  you  need  n't  fear.  I  know  what  it  is.  He 
wants  money  to  settle  debts.  I've  sent  it  be- 
fore —  once.  That  is  it —  that  is  it?" 

"Yes,  only  it's  —  it's  a  particularly  bad 
job  this  time,"  stammered  the  other.  "You 

123 


The  Tangled  Threads 

see,  it  —  it's  club  money  —  a  little  club 
among  the  boys,  of  which  he  is  treasurer  — 
and  he  sto  —  used  part  of  the  —  funds." 

The  man  choked  over  the  wretched  tale,  and 
instinctively  laid  his  hand  on  the  girl's  arm. 
She  would  faint  or  cry,  of  course,  and  he  won- 
dered what  he  could  do.  But  there  was  no 
fainting,  no  crying.  There  was  only  the  piti- 
ful whitening  of  a  set  little  face,  and  the  tense 
question : 

"How  much  —  was  it?"  < 

Carroll  sighed  in  relief. 

"Miss  Raymond,  you're  a  —  a  brick  —  to 
take  it  like  that,"  he  cried  brokenly.  "  I  don't 
know  another  girl  who  —  It  was  —  well,  a 
hundred  dollars  will  cover  it;  but  he's  got  to 
have  it  —  to-morrow." 

"I'll  send  it." 

"But  how — forgive  me,  Miss  Raymond,  but 
last  night  you  were  telling  me  that  —  that — " 
He  flushed,  and  came  to  a  helpless  pause. 

"How  can  I  get  it?"  she  supplied  wearily. 
"We've  a  little  in  the  bank  —  a  very  little  laid 
by  for  a  rainy  day;  but  it  will  cover  that.  We 
never  think  of  touching  it,  of  course,  for  —  for 

124 


The  Apple  of  Her  Eye 

ordinary  things.  But  —  this"  She  shuddered, 
and  Carroll  saw  her  shabbily  gloved  hand  clinch 
spasmodically.  "Mr.  Carroll,  how  did  he  come 
to  — doit?" 

It  was  a  short  story,  soon  told  —  the  usual 
story  of  a  pleasure-loving,  thoughtless  youth, 
tempted  beyond  his  strength.  Carroll  softened 
it  where  he  could,  and  ended  with:  — 

"I  asked  Bert  to  let  me  make  it  good,  some- 
how, but  he  would  n't,  Miss  Raymond.  He 
—  he  just  would  n't!" 

"Of  course  he  would  n't,"  exclaimed  the  girl 
sharply.  Then,  in  a  softer  voice:  "Thank 
you,  just  the  same.  But,  don't  you  see? 
T  would  have  done  no  good.  I'd  have  had 
to  pay  you.  .  .  .  No,  no,  don't  say  any  more, 
please,"  she  begged,  in  answer  to  the  quick 
words  that  leaped  to  his  lips.  "You  have  been 
kind  —  very  kind.  Now,  just  one  kindness 
more,  if  you  will,"  she  hurried  on.  "Come  to- 
night. I  must  leave  you  now  —  it's  the  store, 
just  around  the  corner.  But  to-night  I  '11  have 
the  money.  It's  in  my  name,  and  I  can  get 
it  without  mother's  —  knowing.  You  under- 
stand ?  Without  —  mother's  —  knowing" 
125 


The  Tangled  Threads 

"I  understand,"  he  nodded  gravely,  as  he 
wrung  her  hand  and  turned  chokingly  away. 

When  Helen  reached  home  that  night  she 
found  the  little  flat  dominated  once  again  by 
the  big,  breezy  presence  of  Herbert's  friend. 

"I've  been  telling  him  more  about  Herbert," 
Mrs.  Raymond  began  joyously,  as  soon  as 
Helen  entered  the  room.  "I've  been  telling 
him  about  his  letters  to  me,  and  the  pepper- 
mints and  the  lace  tie,  you  know,  and  how 
good  Herbert  is  to  me.  We've  had  such  a  nice 
visit!" 

"Have  you?  I'm  so  glad!"  returned  Helen, 
a  little  unsteadily;  and  only  the  man  knew  the 
meaning  of  the  quick  look  of  relieved  gratitude 
that  came  to  her  face. 

At  the  door  some  minutes  later,  Carroll 
found  a  small  packet  thrust  into  his  fingers. 
He  caught  both  the  hand  and  the  packet  in  a 
firm  clasp. 

"You're  true  blue,  little  girl,"  he  breathed 
tremulously,  "and  I'm  going  to  keep  tabs  on 
Bert  after  this.  I  '11  make  him  keep  straight  for 
her  —  and  for  you.  He's  only  a  bit  weak,  after 
all.  And  you'll  see  me  again  soon  —  very 

126 


The  Apple  of  Her  Eye 

soon,"  he  finished,  as  he  crushed  her  hand  in  a 
grip  that  hurt.  Then  he  turned  and  stumbled 
away,  as  if  his  eyes  did  not  see  quite  clearly. 

"Now,  wasn't  he  nice?'*  murmured  Mrs. 
Raymond,  as  the  girl  closed  the  hall  door. 
"And  —  didn't  he  say  that  he'd. call  again 
sometime?" 

"Yes,  mother." 

"Well,  I'm  sure,  I  hope  he  will.  He  isn't 
Herbert,  of  course,  but  he  knows  Herbert." 

"He — does,  mother."  There  was  a  little 
break  in  Helen's  voice,  but  Mrs.  Raymond  did 
not  notice  it. 

"Dearie  me!  Well,  he's  gone  now,  and  I  am 
hungry.  My  dinner  didn't  seem  to  please, 
somehow." 

"Why,  mother,  it  was  n't — codfish;  was  it?" 

"N-no.  It  was  chicken.  But  then,  like 
enough  it  will  be  codfish  to-morrow." 

Helen  Raymond  dreamed  that  night,  and 
she  dreamed  of  love,  and  youth,  and  laughter. 
But  it  was  not  the  shimmer  of  spangled  tulle 
nor  the  chatter  of  merry  girls  that  called  it 
forth.  It  was  the  look  in  a  pair  of  steadfast 
blue  eyes,  and  the  grip  of  a  strong  man's  hand. 


A  Mushroom  of  Collingsville 

THERE  were  three  men  in  the  hotel  office 
that  Monday  evening:  Jared  Parker,  the 
proprietor;  Seth  Wilber,  town  authority  on  all 
things  past  and  present;  and  John  Fletcher, 
known  in  Collingsville  as  "The  Squire"  — 
possibly  because  of  his  smattering  of  Black- 
stone;  probably  because  of  his  silk  hat  and 
five-thousand-dollar  bank  account.  Each  of 
the  three  men  eyed  with  unabashed  curiosity 
the  stranger  in  the  doorway. 

"Good-evening,  gentlemen,"  began  a  dep- 
recatory voice.  "I  —  er  —  this  is  the  hotel ? " 

In  a  trice  Jared  Parker  was  behind  the  short 
counter. 

"Certainly,  sir.  Room,  sir?"  he  said  suavely, 
pushing  an  open  book  and  a  pen  halfway  across 
the  counter. 

"H'm,  yes,  I  —  I  suppose  so,"  murmured 
the  stranger,  as  he  hesitatingly  crossed  the 
floor.  "H'm;  one  must  sleep,  you  know,"  he 
added,  as  he  examined  the  point  of  the  pen. 

128 


A  Mushroom  of  Collingsville 

"Certainly,  sir,  certainly,"  agreed  Jared, 
whose  face  was  somewhat  twisted  in  his  en- 
deavors to  smile  on  the  prospective  guest  and 
frown  at  the  two  men  winking  and  gesticulat- 
ing over  by  the  stove. 

"H'm,"  murmured  the  stranger  a  third 
time,  as  he  signed  his  name  with  painstaking 
care.  "There,  that's  settled!  Now  where  shall 
I  find  Professor  Marvin,  please?" 

"Professor  Marvin!"  repeated  Jared  stu- 
pidly. 

"Yes;  Professor  George  Marvin,"  bowed  the 
stranger. 

"Why,  there  ain't  no  Professor  Marvin,  that 
I  know  of." 

"Mebbe  he  means  old  Marvin's  son,"  inter- 
posed Seth  Wilber  with  a  chuckle. 

The  stranger  turned  inquiringly. 

"His  name's  'George,'  all  right,"  continued 
Seth,  with  another  chuckle,  "but  I  never  heard 
of  his  professin'  anythin'  —  'nless  't  was  lazi- 


ness." 


The  stranger's  face  showed  a  puzzled  frown. 
"Oh  —  but  —  I  mean  the  man  who  discov- 
ered that  ants  and — " 

129 


The  Tangled  Threads 

"Good  gorry!"  interrupted  Seth,  with  a 
groan.  "If  it's  anythin'  about  bugs  an*  snakes, 
he's  yer  man!  Ain't  he?"  he  added,  turning 
to  his  friends  for  confirmation. 

Jared  nodded,  and  Squire  Fletcher  cleared 
his  throat. 

"He's  done  nothing  but  play  with  bugs  ever 
since  he  came  into  the  world,"  said  the  Squire 
ponderously.  "A  most  unfortunate  case  of  an 
utterly  worthless  son  born  to  honest,  hard- 
working parents.  He'll  bring  up  in  the  poor- 
house  yet  —  or  in  a  worse  place.  Only  think 
of  it  —  a  grown  man  spending  his  time  flat  on 
his  stomach  in  the  woods  counting  ants'  legs 
and  bugs'  eyes ! " 

"Oh,  but — "  The  stranger  stopped.  The 
hotel-keeper  had  the  floor. 

"It  began  when  he  wa'n't  more'n  a  baby. 
He  pestered  the  life  out  of  his  mother  bring- 
ing snakes  into  the  sittin'-room,  and  carrying 
worms  in  his  pockets.  The  poor  woman  was 
'most  mortified  to  death  about  it.  Why,  once 
when  the  parson  was  there,  George  used  his 
hat  to  catch  butterflies  with  —  smashed  it, 


too." 


130 


A  Mushroom  of  Collingsville 

"Humph!"  snapped  the  Squire.  "The  little 
beast  filled  one  of  my  overshoes  once,  to  make 
a  swimming-tank  for  his  dirty  little  fish." 

"They  could  n't  do  nothin'  with  him," 
chimed  in  Seth  Wilber.  "An'  when  he  was 
older,  'twas  worse.  If  his  father  set  him  ter 
hoein'  pertaters,  the  little  scamp  would  be 
found  h'istin'  up  old  rocks  an'  boards  ter  see 
the  critters  under  'em  crawl." 

"Yes,  but — "  Again  the  stranger  was  si- 
lenced. 

v  "And  in  school  he  did  n't  care  nothing  about 
'rithmetic  nor  jography,"  interrupted  Jared. 
"He  was  forever  scarin'  the  teacher  into  fits 
bringin'  in  spiders  an'  caterpillars,  an'  asking 
questions  about  'em." 

"Gorry!  I  guess  ye  can't  tell  me  no  news 
about  George  Marvin's  schoolin',"  snarled 
Seth  Wilber — "me,  that's  got  a  son  Tim 
what  was  in  the  same  class  with  him.  Why, 
once  the  teacher  set  'em  in  the  same  seat;  but 
Tim  could  n't  stand  that  —  what  with  the 
worms  an'  spiders  —  an'  he  kicked  so  hard  the 
teacher  swapped  'round." 

"Yes;   well  —  er  —  extraordinary,    extraor- 


The  Tangled  Threads 

dinary  —  very!  —  so  it  is,"  murmured  the 
stranger,  backing  toward  the  door.  The  next 
moment  he  was  out  on  the  street  asking  the 
first  person  he  met  for  the  way  to  George  Mar- 
vin's. 

On  Tuesday  night  a  second  stranger  stopped 
at  the  hotel  and  asked  where  he  could  find 
Professor  Marvin.  Jared,  Seth,  and  Squire 
Fletcher  were  there  as  before;  but  this  time 
their  derisive  stories  —  such  as  they  managed 
to  tell  —  fell  on  deaf  ears.  The  stranger  signed 
his  name  with  a  flourish,  engaged  his  room, 
laughed  good-naturedly  at  the  three  men  — 
and  left  them  still  talking. 

On  Wednesday  two  more  strangers  arrived, 
and  on  Thursday,  another  one.  All,  with  vary- 
ing manner  but  unvarying  promptitude,  called 
for  Professor  George  Marvin. 

Jared,  Seth,  and  the  Squire  were  dumfounded. 
Their  mystification  culminated  in  one  grand 
chorus  of  amazement  when,  on  Friday,  the 
Squire  came  to  the  hotel  hugging  under  his  arm 
a  daily  newspaper. 

"Just  listen  to  this!"  he  blurted  out,  bang- 
ing his  paper  down  on  the  desk  and  spreading 

132 


A  Mushroom  of  Collingsville 

it  open  with  shaking  hands.  As  he  read,  he 
ran  his  finger  down  the  column,  singling  out  a 
phrase  here  and  there,  and  stumbling  a  little 
over  unfamiliar  words.' 

The  recent  entomological  discoveries  of  Pro 
fessor  George  Marvin  have  set  the  scientific  world 
in  a  flurry.  .  .  .  Professor  Marvin  is  now  unani- 
mously conceded  to  be  the  greatest  entomologist 
living.  He  knows  his  Hex-a-poda  and  Myri-a- 
poda  as  the  most  of  us  know  our  alphabet.  .  .  . 
The  humble  home  of  the  learned  man  has  be- 
come a  Mecca,  toward  which  both  great  and 
small  of  the  scientific  world  are  bending  eager 
steps.  .  .  .  The  career  of  Marvin  reads  like  a  ro 
mance,  and  he  has  fought  his  way  to  his  present 
enviable  position  by  sheer  grit,  and  ability,  hav- 
ing had  to  combat  with  all  the  narrow  criticism 
and  misconceptions  usual  in  the  case  of  a  progres- 
sive thinker  in  a  small  town.  Indeed,  it  is  said 
that  even  now  his  native  village  fails  to  recognize 
the  honor  that  is  hers. 

"Jehoshaphat!"  exclaimed  Seth  Wilber 
faintly. 

Fletcher  folded  the  paper  and  brought  his 
fist  down  hard  upon  it. 

"There 's  more  —  a  heap  more,"  he  cried  ex- 
citedly. 

133 


The  Tangled  Threads 

"But  how  —  what — "  stammered  Jared, 
whose  wits  were  slow  on  untrodden  paths. 

"It's  old  Marvin's  son  —  don't  you  see?" 
interrupted  Squire  Fletcher  impatiently.  "He  's 
big!  —  famous! " 

"'Famous!'  What  for?" 

"Zounds,  man!  —  did  n't  you  hear?"  snarled 
the  Squire.  "He 's  a  famous  entomologist.  It 's 
his  bugs  and  spiders." 

"Gosh!"  ejaculated  Jared,  his  hand  seeking 
the  bald  spot  on  the  back  of  his  head.  "Who'd 
ever  have  thought  it?  Gorry!  Let's  have  a 
look  at  it."  And  he  opened  the  paper  and 
peered  at  the  print  with  near-sighted  eyes. 

It  was  on  Monday,  three  days  later,  that  Jared, 
Seth,  and  the  Squire  were  once  more  accosted 
in  the  hotel  office  by  a  man  they  did  not  know. 

"Good-evening,  gentlemen,  I — " 

"You  don't  even  have  to  say  it,"  cut  in 
Jared,  with  a  flourish  of  both  hands.  "We 
know  why  you're  here  without  your  telling." 

"An'  you've  come  ter  the  right  place,  sir  — 
the  right  place,"  declared  Seth  Wilber,  pom- 
pously. "What  Professor  Marvin  don't  know 
about  bugs  an'  spiders  ain't  wuth  knowin'.  I 

134 


A  Mushroom  of  Collingsville 

tell  ye,  sir,  he's  the  biggest  entymollygist 
that  there  is  ter  be  found." 

"That  he  is,"  affirmed  the  Squire,  with  an 
indulgently  superior  smile  toward  Wilber  — 
"  the  very  greatest  entomologist  living,"  he  cor- 
rected carefully.  "And  no  wonder,  sir;  he's 
studied  bugs  from  babyhood.  I've  known  him 
all  his  life  —  all  his  life,  sir,  and  I  always  said 
he'd  make  his  mark  in  the  world." 

"Oh,  but — "  began  the  stranger. 

"  'Member  when  he  took  the  parson's  hat 
to  catch  butterflies  in  ? "  chuckled  Jared,  speak- 
ing to  the  Squire,  but  throwing  furtive  glances 
toward  the  stranger  to  make  sure  of  his  at- 
tention. "Gorry  —  but  he  was  a  cute  one! 
Wish  't  had  been  my  hat.  I  'd  'a'  had  it  framed 
an'  labeled,  an'  hung  up  on  the  wall  there." 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  nodded  the  Squire;  then 
he  added  with  a  complacent  smile:  "The  mis- 
chievous little  lad  used  my  overshoe  for  a  fish- 
pond once  —  I  have  that  overshoe  yet." 

"Have  ye  now?"  asked  Seth  Wilber  envi- 
ously. "I  want  ter  know!  Well,  anyhow,  my 
Tim,  he  went  ter  school  with  him,  an'  set  in 
the  same  seat,"  continued  Seth,  turning  toward 

135 


The  Tangled  Threads 

the  stranger.  "Tim's  got  an  old  writin'-book 
with  one  leaf  all  sp'iled  'cause  one  of  young 
Marvin's  spiders  got  into  the  inkwell  an'  then 
did  a  cake-walk  across  the  page.  Tim,  he  got  a 
lickin'  fur  it  then,  but  he  says  he  would  n't 
give  up  that  page  now  fur  forty  lickin's." 

The  stranger  shifted  from  one  foot  to  the 
other. 

"Yes,  yes/'  he  began,  "but—" 

"You'd  oughter  seen  him  when  old  Marvin 
used  ter  send  him  out  to  hoe  pertaters,"  cut 
in  Jared  gleefully.  "Gorry!  —  young  as  he  was, 
he  was  all  bugs  then.  He  was  smart  enough 
to  know  that  there  was  lots  of  curious  critters 
under  sticks  an'  stones  that  had  laid  still  for  a 
long  time.  I  tell  yer,  there  wa'n't  much  that 
got  away  from  his  bright  eyes  —  except  the 
pertaters!  —  he  did  n't  bother  them  none." 

A  prolonged  chuckle  and  a  loud  laugh 
greeted  this  sally.  In  the  pause  that  followed 
the  stranger  cleared  his  throat  determinedly. 

"See  here,  gentlemen,"  he  began  pompously, 
with  more  than  a  shade  of  irritation  in  his 
voice.  "Will  you  allow  me  to  speak?  And  will 
you  inform  me  what  all  this  is  about?" 

136 


A  Mushroom  of  Collingsville 

"About?  Why,  it's  about  Professor  George 
Marvin,  to  be  sure,"  rejoined  Squire  Fletcher. 
"Pray,  what  else  should  it  be  about?" 

"I  guess  you  know  what  it's  about  all  right, 
stranger,"  chuckled  Seth  Wilber,  with  a  shrewd 
wink.  "You  can't  fool  us.  Mebbe  you're  one 
o'  them  fellers  what  thinks  we  don't  know 
enough  ter  'predate  a  big  man  when  we've 
got  him.  No,  sir-ree!  We  ain't  that  kind. 
Come,  ye  need  n't  play  off  no  longer.  We  know 
why  you're  here,  an'  we're  glad  ter  see  ye,  an' 
we're  proud  ter  show  ye  the  way  ter  our  Pro- 
fessor's. Come  on  —  't  ain't  fur." 

The  stranger  drew  back.  His  face  grew  red, 
then  purple. 

"I  should  like  to  know,"  he  sputtered 
thickly,  "I  should  like  to  know  if  you  really 
think  that  I  —  I  have  come  'way  up  here  to 
see  this  old  bug  man.  Why,  man  alive,  I  never 
even  heard  of  him!" 

"What!"  ejaculated  three  disbelieving  voices, 
their  owners  too  dumfounded  to  take  excep- 
tions to  the  sneer  in  tone  and  words.  "Zounds, 
man!  —  what  did  you  come  for,  then?"  de- 
manded the  Squire. 

137 


The  Tangled  Threads 

The  stranger  raised  his  chin. 

"See  here,  who  do  you  think  I  am?"  he  de- 
manded pompously,  as  he  squared  himself  be- 
fore them  in  all  his  glory  of  checkered  trousers, 
tall  hat,  and  flaunting  watch-chain.  "  Who  do 
you  think  I  am?  I  am  Theophilus  Augustus 
Smythe,  sir,  advance  agent  and  head  manager 
of  theKalamazooNone-Like-It  Salve  Company. 
I  came,  sir,  to  make  arrangements  for  their  ar- 
rival to-morrow  morning.  They  show  in  this 
town  to-morrow  night.  Now  perhaps  you  un- 
derstand, sir,  that  my  business  is  rather  more 
important  than  hunting  up  any  old  bug  man 
that  ever  lived ! "  And  he  strode  to  the  desk  and 
picked  up  the  pen. 

For  a  moment  there  was  absolute  silence; 
then  Seth  Wilber  spoke. 

"Well,  by  ginger!  —  you  —  you'd  oughter 
have  come  ter  see  the  Professor,  anyhow,"  he 
muttered,  weakly,  as  he  fell  back  in  his  chair. 
"Say,  Squire,  'member  when  Marvin — " 

Over  at  the  desk  Theophilus  Augustus  Smythe 
crossed  his  t  with  so  violent  an  energy  that  the 
pen  sputtered  and  made  two  blots. 


That  Angel  Boy 

I  AM  so  glad  you  consented  to  stay  over 
until  Monday,  auntie,  for  now  you  can  hear 
our  famous  boy  choir,"  Ethel  had  said  at  the 
breakfast  table  that  Sunday  morning. 

"Humph!  I've  heard  of  'em,"  Ann  Weth- 
erby  had  returned  crisply,  "but  I  never  took 
much  stock  in  'em.  A  choir  —  made  o'  boys 
—  just  as  if  music  could  come  from  yellin', 
hootin'  boys!" 

An  hour  later  at  St.  Mark's,  the  softly  swell- 
ing music  of  the  organ  was  sending  curious 
little  thrills  tingling  to  Miss  Wetherby's  finger 
tips.  The  voluntary  had  become  a  mere  whis- 
per when  she  noticed  that  the  great  doors  near 
her  were  swinging  outward.  The  music  ceased, 
and  there  was  a  moment's  breathless  hush  — 
then  faintly  in  the  distance  sounded  the  first 
sweet  notes  of  the  processional. 

Ethel  stirred  slightly  and  threw  a  meaning 
glance  at  her  aunt.  The  woman  met  the  look 
unflinchingly. 

139 


The  Tangled  Threads 

"Them  ain't  no  boys!"  she  whispered  tartly. 

Nearer  and  nearer  swelled  the  chorus  until 
the  leaders  reached  the  open  doors.  Miss 
Wetherby  gave  one  look  at  the  white-robed 
singers,  then  she  reached  over  and  clutched 
Ethel's  ringers. 

"They  be!  —  and  in  their  nighties,  too!" 
she  added  in  a  horrified  whisper. 

One  of  the  boys  had  a  solo  in  the  anthem 
that  morning,  and  as  the  clear,  pure  soprano 
rose  higher  and  higher,  Miss  Wetherby  gazed 
in  undisguised  awe  at  the  young  singer.  She 
noted  the  soulful  eyes  uplifted  devoutly,  and  the 
broad  forehead  framed  in  clustering  brown 
curls.  To  Miss  Wetherby  it  was  the  face  of  an 
angel ;  and  as  the  glorious  voice  rose  and  swelled 
and  died  away  in  exquisite  melody,  two  big 
tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks  and  splashed  on 
the  shining,  black  silk  gown. 

At  dinner  that  day  Miss  Wetherby  learned 
that  the  soloist  was  "Bobby  Sawyer."  She 
also  learned  that  he  was  one  of  Ethel's  "fresh- 
air"  mission  children,  and  that,  as  yet,  there 
was  no  place  for  him  to  go  for  a  vacation. 

"That  angel  child  with  the  heavenly  voice 
140 


That  Angel  Boy 

—  and  no  one  to  take  him  in?"  Miss  Wetherby 
bethought  herself  of  her  own  airy  rooms  and 
flowering  meadows,  and  snapped  her  lips  to- 
gether with  sudden  determination. 

"  I  '11  take  him ! "  she  announced  tersely,  and 
went  home  the  next  day  to  prepare  for  her  ex- 
pected guest. 

Early  in  the  morning  of  the  first  Monday 
in  July,  Miss  Wetherby  added  the  finishing 
touches  to  the  dainty  white  bedroom  upstairs. 

"Dear  little  soul  —  I  hope  he'll  like  it!" 
she  murmured,  giving  a  loving  pat  to  the  spot- 
less, berufHed  pillow  shams;  then  her  approv- 
ing eyes  fell  upon  the  "Morning  Prayer"  hang- 
ing at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  "There!  them  sweet 
little  cherubs  sayin'  their  prayers  is  jest  the 
thing  fur  the  little  saint  to  see  when  he  first 
wakes  ev'ry  mornin'.  Little  angel!"  she  fin- 
ished softly. 

On  the  table  in  the  corner  were  hymn  books, 
the  great  red-and-gold  family  Bible,  and  a 
"Baxter's  Saint's  Rest"  — the  only  reading 
matter  suited  to  Miss  Wetherby's  conception 
of  the  mind  behind  those  soulful  orbs  upraised 
in  devout  adoration. 

141 


The  Tangled  Threads 

Just  before  Ann  started  for  the  station 
Tommy  Green  came  over  to  leave  his  pet  dog, 
Rover,  for  Miss  Wetherby's  "fresh-air"  boy 
to  play  with. 

"Now,  Thomas  Green,"  remonstrated  Ann 
severely,  "you  can  take  that  dirty  dog  right 
home.  I  won't  have  him  around.  Besides, 
Robert  Sawyer  ain't  the  kind  of  a  boy  you  be. 
He  don't  care  fur  sech  things  —  I  know  he 
don't." 

Half  an  hour  later,  Ann  Wetherby,  her  heart 
thumping  loudly  against  her  ribs,  anxiously 
scanned  the  passengers  as  they  alighted  at 
Slocumville  Station.  There  were  not  many — 
an  old  man,  two  girls,  three  or  four  women, 
and  a  small,  dirty  boy  with  a  dirtier  dog  and 
a  brown  paper  parcel  in  his  arms. 

He  had  not  come! 

Miss  Wetherby  held  her  breath  and  looked 
furtively  at  the  small  boy.  There  was  nothing 
familiar  in  his  appearance,  she  was  thankful 
to  say!  He  must  be  another  one  for  some- 
body else.  Still,  perhaps  he  might  know  some- 
thing about  her  own  angel  boy  —  she  would 
ask. 

142 


That  Angel  Boy 

Ann  advanced  warily,  with  a  disapproving 
eye  on  the  dog. 

"Little  boy,  can  you  tell  me  why  Robert 
Sawyer  did  n't  come?"  she  asked  severely. 

The  result  of  her  cautious  question  discon- 
certed her  not  a  little.  The  boy  dropped  the 
dog  and  bundle  to  the  platform,  threw  his  hat 
in  the  air,  and  capered  about  in  wild  glee. 

"Hi, there,  Bones!  We're  all  right!  Golly — 
but  I  thought  we  was  side-tracked,  fur  sure!'* 

Miss  Wetherby  sank  in  limp  dismay  to  a 
box  of  freight  near  by  —  the  bared  head  dis- 
closed the  clustering  brown  curls  and  broad 
forehead,  and  the  eyes  uplifted  to  the  whirling 
hat  completed  the  tell-tale  picture. 

The  urchin  caught  the  hat  deftly  on  the  back 
of  his  head,  and  pranced  up  to  Ann  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets. 

"Gee-whiz!  marm  —  but  I  thought  you'd 
flunked  fur  sure.  I  reckoned  me  an'  Bones  was 
barkin'  up  the  wrong  tree  this  time.  It  looked 
as  if  we'd  come  to  a  jumpin'-ofT  place,  an' 
you'd  given  us  the  slip.  I'm  Bob,  myself,  ye 
see,  an'  I've  come  all  right!" 

"Are  you  Robert  Sawyer?"  she  gasped. 


The  Tangled  Threads 

"Jest  ye  hear  that,  Bones!"  laughed  the  boy 
shrilly,  capering  round  and  round  the  small 
dog  again.  "I's  'Robert'  now  —  do  ye  hear?" 
Then  he  whirled  back  to  his  position  in  front 
of  Miss  Wetherby,  and  made  a  low  bow.  "  Rob- 
ert Sawyer,  at  yer  service,"  he  announced  in 
mock  pomposity.  "Oh,  I  say,"  he  added  with 
a  quick  change  of  position,  "yer  'd  better 
call  me  'Bob';  I  ain't  uster  nothin'  else.  I'd 
fly  off  the  handle  quicker  'n  no  time,  puttin' 
on  airs  like  that." 

Miss  Wetherby 's  back  straightened.  She 
made  a  desperate  attempt  to  regain  her  usual 
stern  self-possession. 

"I  shall  call  ye  'Robert,'  boy.  I  don't  like- 
er  —  that  other  name." 

There  was  a  prolonged  stare  and  a  low  whis- 
tle from  the  boy.  Then  he  turned  to  pick  up 
his  bundle. 

"Come  on,  Bones,  stir  yer  stumps;  lively, 
now!  This  'ere  lady  's  a-goin'  ter  take  us  ter 
her  shebang  ter  stay  mos'  two  weeks.  Gee- 
whiz!  Bones,  ain't  this  great!"  And  with  one 
bound  he  was  off  the  platform  and  turning  a 
series  of  somersaults  on  the  soft  grass  followed 

144 


That  Angel  Boy 

by  the  skinny,  mangy  dog  which  was  barking 
itself  nearly  wild  with  joy. 

Ann  Wetherby  gazed  at  the  revolving  mass 
of  heads  and  legs  of  boy  and  dog  in  mute  de- 
spair, then  she  rose  to  her  feet  and  started  down 
the  street. 

"You  c'n  foller  me,"  she  said  sternly,  with- 
out turning  her  head  toward  the  culprits  on 
the  grass. 

The  boy  came  upright  instantly. 

"Do  ye  stump  it,  marm?" 

"What?"  she  demanded,  stopping  short  in 
her  stupefaction. 

"Do  ye  stump  it  —  hoof  it  —  foot  it,  I 
mean,"  he  enumerated  quickly,  in  a  praise- 
worthy attempt  to  bring  his  vocabulary  to 
the  point  where  it  touched  hers. 

"Oh  —  yes;  't  ain't  fur,"  vouchsafed  Ann 
feebly. 

Bobby  trotted  alongside  of  Miss  Wetherby, 
meekly  followed  by  the  dog.  Soon  the  boy 
gave  his  trousers  an  awkward  hitch,  and 
glanced  sideways  up  at  the  woman. 

"Oh,  I  say,  marm,  I  think  it's  bully  of  yer 
ter  let  me  an'  Bones  come,"  he  began  sheep- 

HS 


The  Tangled  Threads 

ishly.  "  It  looked  's  if  our  case  'd  hang  fire  till 
the  crack  o'  doom;  there  wa'n't  no  one  ter 
have  us.  When  Miss  Ethel,  she  told  me  her 
aunt  'd  take  us,  it  jest  struck  me  all  of  a  heap. 
I  tell  ye,  me  an'  Bones  made  tracks  fur  Slo- 
cumville  'bout 's  soon  as  they  'd  let  us." 

"I  hain't  no  doubt  of  it!"  retorted  Ann, 
looking  back  hopelessly  at  the  dog. 

"Ye  see,"  continued  the  boy  confidentially, 
"  there  ain't  ev'ry  one  what  likes  boys,  an'  —  hi, 
there!  —  go  it,  Bones!"  he  suddenly  shrieked, 
and  scampered  wildly  after  the  dog  which  had 
dashed  into  the  bushes  by  the  side  of  the  road. 

Ann  did  not  see  her  young  charge  again  until 
she  had  been  home  half  an  hour.  He  came  in 
at  the  gate,  then,  cheerfully  smiling,  the  dog  at 
his  heels. 

"Jiminy  Christmas!"  he  exclaimed,  "I  be- 
gun ter  think  I  'd  lost  ye,  but  I  remembered  yer 
last  name  was  the  same's  Miss  Ethel's,  an'  a 
boy  —  Tommy  Green,  around  the  corner - 
he  told  me  where  ye  lived.  And,  oh,  I  say,  me 
an'  Bones  are  a-goin'  off  with  him  an'  Rover 
after  I  Ve  had  somethin'  ter  eat  — '/  is  mos' 
grub  time,  ain't  it?"  he  added  anxiously. 

146 


That  Angel  Boy 

Ann  sighed  in  a  discouraged  way. 

"Yes,  I  s'pose  't  is.  I  left  some  beans 
a-bakin',  and  dinner '11  be  ready  pretty  quick. 
You  can  come  upstairs  with  me,  Robert,  an' 
I  '11  show  ye  where  yer  goin'  ter  sleep,"  she  fin- 
ished, with  a  sinking  heart,  as  she  thought  of 
those  ruffled  pillow  shams. 

Bobby  followed  Miss  Wetherby  into  the 
dainty  chamber.  He  gave  one  look,  and  puck- 
ered up  his  lips  into  a  long,  low  whistle. 

"Well,  I'll  be  flabbergasted!  Oh,  I  say,  now, 
ye  don't  expect  me  ter  stay  in  all  this  fuss  an* 
fixin's!"  he  exclaimed  ruefully. 

"It  —  it  is  the  room  I  calculated  fur  ye," 
said  Ann,  with  almost  a  choke  in  her  voice. 

The  boy  looked  up  quickly  and  something 
rose  within  him  that  he  did  not  quite  under- 
stand. 

"Oh,  well,  ye  know,  it's  slick  as  a  whistle 
an'  all  that,  but  I  ain't  uster  havin'  it  laid  on 
so  thick.  I  ain't  no  great  shakes,  ye  know,  but 
I'll  walk  the  chalk  all  right  this  time.  Golly! 
Ain't  it  squashy,  though!"  he  exclaimed,  as 
with  a  run  and  a  skip  he  landed  straight  in  the 
middle  of  the  puffy  bed. 

H7 


The  Tangled  Threads 

With  one  agitated  hand  Miss  Wetherby 
rescued  her  pillow  shams,  and  with  the  other, 
forcibly  removed  the  dog  which  had  lost  no 
time  in  following  his  master  into  the  feathery 
nest.  Then  she  abruptly  left  the  room;  she 
could  not  trust  herself  to  speak. 

Miss  Wetherby  did  not  see  much  of  her 
guest  that  afternoon;  he  went  away  imme- 
diately after  dinner  and  did  not  return  until 
supper  time.  Then  he  was  so  completely  tired 
out  that  he  had  but  two  words  in  reply  to 
Miss  Wetherby's  question. 

"Did  ye  have  a  good  time?"  she  asked  wist- 
fully. 

"You  bet!" 

After  supper  he  went  at  once  to  his  room ;  but 
it  was  not  until  Miss  Wetherby  ceased  to  hear 
the  patter  of  his  feet  on  the  floor  above  that 
she  leaned  back  in  her  chair  with  a  sigh  of  re- 
lief. 

When  Ann  went  upstairs  to  make  the  bed 
that  Tuesday  morning,  the  sight  that  met  her 
eyes  struck  terror  to  her  heart.  The  bedclothes 
were  scattered  in  wild  confusion  half  over  the 
room.  The  washbowl,  with  two  long  singing- 

148 


That  Angel  Boy 

books  across  it,  she  discovered  to  her  horror, 
was  serving  as  a  prison  for  a  small  green  snake. 
The  Bible  and  the  remaining  hymn  books, 
topped  by  "Baxter's  Saints'  Rest,"  lay  in  a 
suspicious-looking  pile  on  the  floor.  Under 
these  Miss  Wetherby  did  not  look.  After  her 
experience  with  the  snake  and  the  washbowl, 
her  nerves  were  not  strong  enough.  She  re- 
coiled in  dismay,  also,  from  the  sight  of  two 
yellow,  paper-covered  books  on  the  table, 
flaunting  shamelessly  the  titles:  "Jack;  the 
Pirate  of  Red  Island,"  and  "Haunted  by  a 
Headless  Ghost." 

She  made  the  bed  as  rapidly  as  possible,  with 
many  a  backward  glance  at  the  book-covered 
washbowl,  then  she  went  downstairs  and  shook 
and  brushed  herself  with  little  nervous  shud- 
ders. 

Ann  Wetherby  never  forgot  that  Fourth  of 
July,  nor,  for  that  matter,  the  days  that  imme- 
diately followed.  She  went  about  with  both 
ears  stuffed  with  cotton,  and  eyes  that  were  ever 
on  the  alert  for  all  manner  of  creeping,  crawl- 
ing things  in  which  Bobby's  soul  delighted. 

The  boy,  reinforced  by  the  children  of  the 
149 


The  Tangled  Threads 

entire  neighborhood,  held  a  circus  in  Miss 
Wetherby's  wood-shed,  and  instituted  a  Wild 
Indian  Camp  in  her  attic.  The  poor  woman 
was  quite  powerless,  and  remonstrated  all  in 
vain.  The  boy  was  so  cheerfully  good-tem- 
pered under  her  sharpest  words  that  the  vic- 
tory was  easily  his. 

But  on  Saturday  when  Miss  Wetherby,  re- 
turning from  a  neighbor's,  found  two  cats,  four 
dogs,  and  two  toads  tied  to  her  parlor  chairs, 
together  with  three  cages  containing  respec- 
tively a  canary,  a  parrot,  and  a  squirrel  (col- 
lected from  obliging  households),  she  rebelled 
in  earnest  and  summoned  Bobby  to  her  side. 

"Robert,  I've  stood  all  I'm  a-goin'  ter. 
You've  got  to  go  home  Monday.  Do  you 
hear?" 

"Oh,  come  off,  Miss  Wetherby,  't  ain't  only 
a  menag'ry,  an'  you  don't  use  the  room  none." 

Miss  Wetherby's  mouth  worked  convulsively. 

"Robert!"  she  gasped,  as  soon  as  she  could 
find  her  voice,  "I  never,  never  heard  of  such 
dreadful  goin's-on!  You  certainly  can't  stay 
here  no  longer,"  she  continued  sternly,  reso- 
lutely trying  to  combat  the  fatal  weakness  that 

150 


That  Angel  Boy 

always  overcame  her  when  the  boy  lifted  those 
soulful  eyes  to  her  face.  "Now  take  them  hor- 
rid critters  out  of  the  parlor  this  minute.  You 
go  home  Monday —  now  mind  what  I  say!" 

An  hour  later,  Miss  Wetherby  had  a  caller. 
It  was  the  chorister  of  her  church  choir.  The 
man  sat  down  gingerly  on  one  of  the  slippery 
haircloth  chairs,  and  proceeded  at  once  to  state 
his  business. 

"I  understand,  Miss  Wetherby,  that  you 
have  an  —  er  —  young  singer  with  you." 

Miss  Wetherby  choked,  and  stammered 
"Yes." 

"He  sings  —  er  —  very  well,  does  n't  he?" 

The  woman  was  still  more  visibly  embar- 
rassed. 

"I  —  I  don't  know,"  she  murmured;  then 
in  stronger  tones,  "The  one  that  looked  like 
him  did." 

"Are  there  two?"  he  asked  in  stupid  amaze- 
ment. 

Miss  Wetherby  laughed  uneasily,  then  she 
sighed. 

"Well,  ter  tell  the  truth,  Mr.  Wiggins,  I 
s'pose  there  ain't;  but  sometimes  I  think  there 


The  Tangled  Threads 

must  be.  I'll  send  Robert  down  ter  the  re- 
hearsal to-night,  and  you  can  see  what  ye  can 
do  with  him."  And  with  this  Mr.  Wiggins 
was  forced  to  be  content. 

Bobby  sang  on  Sunday.  The  little  church 
was  full  to  the  doors.  Bobby  was  already 
famous  in  the  village,  and  people  had  a  lively 
curiosity  as  to  what  this  disquieting  collector 
of  bugs  and  snakes  might  offer  in  the  way  of 
a  sacred  song.  The  "nighty"  was,  perforce, 
absent,  much  to  the  sorrow  of  Ann;  but  the 
witchery  of  the  glorious  voice  entered  again 
into  the  woman's  soul,  and,  indeed,  sent  the 
entire  congregation  home  in  an  awed  silence 
that  was  the  height  of  admiring  homage. 

At  breakfast  time  Monday  morning,  Bobby 
came  downstairs  with  his  brown  paper  parcel 
under  his  arm.  Ann  glanced  at  his  woeful  face, 
then  went  out  into  the  kitchen  and  slammed 
the  oven  door  sharply. 

"Well,marm,  I've  had  a  bully  time  —  sure's 
a  gun,"  said  the  boy  wistfully,  following  her. 

Miss  Wetherby  opened  the  oven  door  and 
shut  it  with  a  second  bang;  then  she  straightened 
herself  and  crossed  the  room  to  the  boy's  side. 


That  Angel  Boy 

"Robert,"  she  began  with  assumed  stern- 
ness, trying  to  hide  her  depth  of  feeling,  "you 
ain't  a-goin'  home  ter-day  —  now  mind  what 
I  say!  Take  them  things  upstairs.  Quick  — 
breakfast's  all  ready!" 

A  great  light  transfigured  Bobby's  face.  He 
tossed  his  bundle  into  a  corner  and  fell  upon 
Miss  Wetherby  with  a  bearlike  hug. 

"Gee-whiz!  marm  —  but  yer  are  a  brick! 
An'  I  '11  run  yer  errands  an'  split  yer  wood,  an' 
I  won't  take  no  dogs  an'  cats  in  the  parlor,  an' 
I'll  do  ev'rythin'  —  ev'rythin'  ye  want  me 
to!  Oh,  golly  —  golly!  —  I'm  goin'  ter  stay 
—  I'm  goin'  ter  stay!"  And  Bobby  danced 
out  of  the  house  into  the  yard  there  to  turn 
somersault  after  somersault  in  hilarious  glee. 

A  queer  choking  feeling  came  into  Ann 
Wetherby's  throat.  She  seemed  still  to  feel 
the  loving  clasp  of  those  small  young  arms. 

"Well,  he  —  he's  part  angel,  anyhow,"  she 
muttered,  drawing  a  long  breath  and  watching 
with  tear-dimmed  eyes  Bobby's  antics  on  the 
grass  outside. 

And  Bobby  stayed  —  not  only  Monday,  but 
through  four  other  long  days  —  days  which  he 


The  Tangled  Threads 

filled  to  the  brim  with  fun  and  frolic  and  joyous 
shouts  as  before  —  and  yet  with  a  change. 

The  shouts  were  less  shrill  and  the  yells  less 
prolonged  when  Bobby  was  near  the  house. 
No  toads  nor  cats  graced  the  parlor  floor,  and 
no  bugs  nor  snakes  tortured  Miss  Wetherby's 
nerves  when  Bobby's  bed  was  made  each  day. 
The  kitchen  woodbox  threatened  to  overflow 
—  so  high  were  its  contents  piled  —  and  Miss 
Wetherby  was  put  to  her  wits'  end  to  satisfy 
Bobby's  urgent  clamorings-  for  errands  to  run. 

And  when  the  four  long  days  were  over  and 
Saturday  came,  a  note  —  and  not  Bobby  — 
was  sent  to  the  city.  The  note  was  addressed 
to  "Miss  Ethel  Wetherby,"  and  this  is  what 
Ethel's  amazed  eyes  read: 

My  Dear  Niece:  — You  can  tell  that  singer 
man  of  Robert's  that  he  is  not  going  back  any 
more.  He  is  going  to  live  with  me  and  go  to 
school  next  winter.  I  am  going  to  adopt  him  for 
my  very  own.  His  father  and  mother  are  dead  — 
he  said  so. 

I  must  close  now,  for  Robert  is  hungry,  and 
wants  his  dinner. 

Love  to  all, 

ANN  WETHERBY. 


"GEE-WHIZ!  MARM  — BUT  YER  ARE  A  BRICK1' 


The  Lady  in  Black 

THE  house  was  very  still.  In  the  little 
room  over  the  porch  the  Lady  in  Black 
sat  alone.  Near  her  a  child's  white  dress  lay 
across  a  chair,  and  on  the  floor  at  her  feet  a  tiny 
pair  of  shoes,  stubbed  at  the  toes,  lay  where  an 
apparently  hasty  hand  had  thrown  them.  A 
doll,  head  downward,  hung  over  a  chair-back, 
and  a  toy  soldier  with  drawn  sword  dominated 
the  little  stand  by  the  bed.  And  everywhere 
was  silence  —  the  peculiar  silence  that  comes 
only  to  a  room  where  the  clock  has  ceased  to 
tick. 

The  clock  —  such  a  foolish  little  clock  of 
filigree  gilt  —  stood  on  the  shelf  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed;  and  as  the  Lady  in  Black  looked  at 
it  she  remembered  the  wave  of  anger  that  had 
surged  over  her  when  she  had  thrust  out  her 
hand  and  silenced  it  that  night  three  months 
before.  It  had  seemed  so  monstrous  to  her 
that  the  pulse  in  that  senseless  thing  of  gilt 
should  throb  on  unheeding  while  below,  on  the 


The  Tangled  Threads 

little  white  bed,  that  other  pulse  was  so  piti- 
ably still.  Hence  she  had  thrust  out  her  hand 
and  stopped  it.  It  had  been  silent  ever  since 
—  and  it  should  remain  silent,  too.  Of  what 
possible  use  were  the  hours  it  would  tick  away 
now?  As  if  anything  mattered,  with  little 
Kathleen  lying  out  there  white  and  still  under 
the  black  earth! 

"Muwer!" 

The  Lady  in  Black  stirred  restlessly,  and 
glanced  toward  the  closed  door.  Behind  it  she 
knew  was  a  little  lad  with  wide  blue  eyes  and 
a  dimpling  mouth  who  wanted  her;  but  she 
wished  he  would  not  call  her  by  that  name.  It 
only  reminded  her  of  those  other  little  lips  — 
silent  now. 

"Muwer!"  The  voice  was  more  insistent. 

The  Lady  in  Black  did  not  answer.  He  might 
go  away,  she  thought,  if  she  did  not  reply. 

There  was  a  short  silence,  then  the  door-knob 
rattled  and  turned  half  around  under  the  touch 
of  plainly  unskilled  fingers.  The  next  moment 
the  door  swung  slowly  back  on  its  hinges  and 
revealed  at  full  length  the  little  figure  in  the 
Russian  suit. 


The  Lady  in  Black 

"Pe-eek!"  It  was  a  gurgling  cry  of  joyful 
discovery,  but  it  was  followed  almost  instantly 
by  silence.  The  black-garbed,  unsmiling  woman 
did  not  invite  approach,  and  the  boy  fell  back 
at  his  first  step.  He  hesitated,  then  spoke, 
tentatively,  " I's  —  here." 

It  was,  perhaps,  the  worst  thing  he  could 
have  said.  To  the  Lady  in  Black  it  was  a  yet 
more  bitter  reminder  of  that  other  one  who  was 
not  there.  She  gave  a  sharp  cry  and  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands. 

"Bobby,  Bobby,  how  can  you  taunt  me 
with  it?"  she  moaned,  in  a  frenzy  of  unrea- 
soning grief.  "Go  away  —  go  away!  I  want 
to  be  alone  —  alone!" 

All  the  brightness  fled  from  the  boy's  face. 
His  mouth  was  no  longer  dimpled,  and  his 
eyes  showed  a  grieved  hurt  in  their  depths. 
Very  slowly  he  turned  away.  At  the  top  of  the 
stairs  he  stopped  and  looked  back.  The  door 
was  still  open,  and  the  Lady  in  Black  still  sat 
with  her  hands  over  her  face.  He  waited,  but 
she  did  not  move;  then,  with  a  half-stifled  sob, 
he  dropped  on  the  top  step  and  began  to  bump 
down  the  stairs,  one  at  a  time. 

IS7 


The  Tangled  Threads 

Long  minutes  afterward  the  Lady  in  Black 
raised  her  head  and  saw  him  through  the  win- 
dow. He  was  down  in  the  yard  with  his  father, 
having  a  frolic  under  the  apple  tree. 

A  frolic! 

The  Lady  in  Black  looked  at  them  with  som- 
ber eyes,  and  her  mouth  hardened  at  the  cor- 
ners. Bobby  down  there  in  the  yard  could 
laugh  and  dance  and  frolic.  Bobby  had  some 
one  to  play  with  him,  some  one  to  love  him  and 
care  for  him;  while  out  there  on  the  hillside 
Kathleen  was  alone  —  all  alone.  Kathleen  had 
no  one  — 

With  a  little  cry  the  Lady  in  Black  sprang  to 
her  feet  and  hurried  into  her  own  room.  Her 
hands  shook  as  she  pinned  on  her  hat  and 
shrouded  herself  in  the  long  folds  of  her  black 
veil;  but  her  step  was  firm  as  she  swept  down- 
stairs and  out  through  the  hall. 

The  man  under  the  apple  tree  rose  hurriedly 
and  came  forward. 

"Helen,  dearest,  —  not  again,  to-day!"  he 
begged.  "Darling,  it  can't  do  any  good!" 

"  But  she 's  alone  —  all  alone.  You  don't  seem 
to  think!  No  one  thinks  —  no  one  knows  how 

158 


'I'S  — HERE" 


The  Lady  in  Black 

I  feel.  You  don't  understand  —  if  you  did, 
you'd  come  with  me.  You  would  n't  ask  me 
to  stay  —  here!"  choked  the  woman. 

"I  have  been  with  you,  dear,"  said  the  man 
gently.  "  I  Ve  been  with  you  to-day,  and  every 
day,  almost,  since  —  since  she  left  us.  But  it 
can't  do  any  good  —  this  constant  brooding 
over  her  grave.  It  only  makes  additional  sor- 
row for  you,  for  me,  and  for  Bobby.  Bobby  is 
—  here,  you  knowj  dear!" 

"No,  no,  don't  say  it,"  sobbed  the  woman 
wildly.  "You  don't  understand  —  you  don't 
understand!"  And  she  turned  and  hurried 
away,  a  tall  black  shadow  of  grief,  followed  by 
the  anguished  eyes  of  the  man,  and  the  wistful 
puzzled  eyes  of  the  boy. 

It  was  not  a  long  walk  to  the  tree-embowered 
plot  of  ground  where  the  marble  shafts  and 
slabs  glistened  in  the  sunlight,  and  the  Lady 
in  Black  knew  the  way;  yet  she  stumbled  and 
reached  out  blindly,  and  she  fell,  as  if  exhausted, 
before  a  little  stone  marked  "Kathleen."  Near 
her  a  gray-haired  woman,  with  her  hands  full 
of  pink  and  white  roses,  watched  her  sympa- 
thetically. She  hesitated,  and  opened  her  lips 

159 


The  Tangled  Threads 

as  if  she  would  speak,  then  she  turned  slowly 
and  began  to  arrange  her  flowers  on  a  grave 
near  by. 

At  the  slight  stir  the  Lady  in  Black  raised 
her  head.  For  a  time  she  watched  in  silence; 
then  she  threw  back  her  veil  and  spoke. 

"You  care,  too,"  she  said  softly.  "You  under- 
stand. I've  seen  you  here  before,  I'm  sure. 
And  was  yours  —  a  little  girl?" 

The  gray-haired  woman  shook  her  head. 

"No,  dearie,  it's  a  little  boy  —  or  he  was 
a  little  boy  forty  years  ago." 

"Forty  years — so  long!  How  could  you 
have  lived  forty  years  —  without  him  ? " 

Again  the  little  woman  shook  her  head. 

"One  has  to  —  sometimes,  dearie;  but  this 
little  boy  was  n't  mine.  He  was  none  of  my  kith 
nor  kin." 

"But  you  care  —  you  understand.  I  Ve  seen 
you  here  so  often  before." 

"Yes.  You  see,  there's  no  one  else  to  care. 
But  there  was  once,  and  I  'm  caring  now  —  for 
her." 

"For  — her?" 

"His  mother." 

160 


The  Lady  in  Black 

"Oh-h!"  It  was  a  tender  little  cry,  full  of 
quick  sympathy  —  the  eyes  of  the  Lady  in 
Black  were  on  the  stone  marked  "Kathleen." 

"It  ain't  as  if  I  did  n't  know  how  she'd  feel," 
muttered  the  gray-haired  little  woman  mus- 
ingly, as  she  patted  her  work  into  completion 
and  turned  toward  the  Lady  in  Black.  "You 
see,  I  was  nurse  to  the  boy  when  it  happened, 
and  for  years  afterward  I  worked  in  the  family; 
so  I  know.  I  saw  the  whole  thing  from  the  be- 
ginning, from  the  very  day  when  the  little  boy 
here  met  with  the  accident." 

"Accident!"  It  was  a  sob  of  anguished  sym- 
pathy from  Kathleen's  mother. 

"Yes.  'T  was  a  runaway;  and  he  did  n't  live 
two  days." 

"I  know — I  know!"  choked  the  Lady  in 
Black  —  yet  she  was  not  thinking  of  the  boy 
and  the  runaway. 

"Things  stopped  then  for  my  mistress,"  re- 
sumed the  little  gray-haired  woman,  after  a 
moment,  "and  that  was  the  beginning  of  the 
end.  She  had  a  husband  and  a  daughter,  but 
they  did  n't  count  —  not  either  of  'em.  Noth- 
in'  counted  but  this  little  grave  out  here;  and 

161 


The  Tangled  Threads 

she  came  and  spent  hours  over  it,  trimmin'  it 
with  flowers  and  talkin'  to  it." 

The  Lady  in  Black  raised  her  head  suddenly 
and  threw  a  quick  glance  into  the  other's  face; 
but  the  gray-haired  woman's  eyes  were  turned 
away,  and  after  a  moment  she  went  on  speak- 
ing. 

"The  house  got  gloomier  and  gloomier,  but 
she  did  n't  seem  to  mind.  She  seemed  to  want 
it  so.  She  shut  out  the  sunshine  and  put  away 
lots  of  the  pictures;  and  she  would  n't  let  the 
pianner  be  opened  at  all.  She  never  sat  any- 
where in  the  house  only  in  the  boy's  room,  and 
there  everything  was  just  as  'twas  when  he 
left  it.  She  would  n't  let  a  thing  be  touched.  I 
wondered  afterward  that  she  did  n't  see  where 
't  was  all  leadin'  to  —  but  she  did  n't." 

"  l Leading  to'?"  The  voice  shook. 

"Yes.  I  wondered  she  did  n't  see  she  was 
losin'  'em  —  that  husband  and  daughter;  but 
she  did  n't  see  it." 

The  Lady  in  Black  sat  very  still.  Even  the 
birds  seemed  to  have  stopped  their  singing. 
Then  the  gray-haired  woman  spoke: 

"So,  you  see,  that's  why  I  come  and  put 
162 


The  Lady  in  Black 

flowers  here — it's  for  her  sake.  There's  no 
one  else  now  to  care,"  she  sighed,  rising  to  her 
feet- 

"But  you  haven't  told  yet  —  what  hap- 
pened," murmured  the  Lady  in  Black,  faintly. 

"  I  don't  know  myself  —  quite.  I  know  the 
man  went  away.  He  got  somethin'  to  do  trav- 
eling so  he  was  n't  home  much.  When  he  did 
come  he  looked  sick  and  bad.  There  were 
stories  that  he  wa'n't  quite  straight  always  — 
but  maybe  that  wa'n't  true.  Anyhow,  he  come 
less  and  less,  and  he  died  away  —  but  that  was 
after  she  died.  He's  buried  over  there,  beside 
her  and  the  boy.  The  girl  —  well,  nobody 
knows  where  the  girl  is.  Girls  like  flowers  and 
sunshine  and  laughter  and  young  folks,  you 
know,  and  she  did  n't  get  any  of  them  at  home. 
So  she  went  —  where  she  did  get  'em,  I  sup- 
pose. Anyhow,  nobody  knows  just  where  she 
is  now.  .  .  .  There,  and  if  I  have  n't  gone  and 
tired  you  all  out  with  my  chatter!"  broke  off 
the  little  gray-haired  woman  contritely.  "I'm 
sure  I  don't  know  why  I  got  to  runnin'  on 
so!" 

"No,  no  —  I  was  glad  to  hear  it,"  faltered 
163 


The  Tangled  Threads 

the  Lady  in  Black,  rising  unsteadily  to  her 
feet.  Her  face  had  grown  white,  and  her  eyes 
showed  a  sudden  fear.  "But  I  must  go  now. 
Thank  you."  And  she  turned  and  hurried 
away. 

The  house  was  very  still  when  the  Lady  in 
Black  reached  home  —  and  she  shivered  at  its 
silence.  Through  the  hall  and  up  the  stairs  she 
went  hurriedly,  almost  guiltily.  In  her  own 
room  she  plucked  at  the  shadowy  veil  with 
fingers  that  tore  the  filmy  mesh  and  found  only 
the  points  of  the  pins.  She  was  crying  now  — 
a  choking  little  cry  with  broken  words  running 
through  it;  and  she  was  still  crying  all  the 
while  her  hands  were  fumbling  at  the  fasten- 
ings of  her  somber  black  dress. 

Long  minutes  later,  the  Lady  —  in  Black  no 
longer  —  trailed  slowly  down  the  stairway. 
Her  eyes  showed  traces  of  tears,  and  her  chin 
quivered,  but  her  lips  were  bravely  curved  in 
a  smile.  She  wore  a  white  dress  and  a  single 
white  rose  in  her  hair;  while  behind  her,  in  the 
little  room  over  the  porch,  a  tiny  clock  of  fili- 
gree gilt  ticked  loudly  on  its  shelf  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed. 

164 


The  Lady  in  Black 

There  came  a  sound  of  running  feet  in  the 
hall  below;  then: 

"Muwer!  —  it's  muwer  come  back!" 
cried  a  rapturous  voice. 

And  with  a  little  sobbing  cry  Bobby's  mother 
opened  her  arms  to  her  son. 


The  Saving  of  Dad 

ON  the  boundary  fence  sat  James,  known 
as  "Jim";  on  the  stunted  grass  of  the 
neighboring  back  yard  lay  Robert,  known  as 
"Bob."  In  age,  size,  and  frank-faced  open- 
heartedness  the  boys  seemed  alike;  but  there 
were  a  presence  of  care  and  an  absence  of  holes 
in  Jim's  shirt  and  knee-breeches  that  were 
quite  wanting  in  those  of  the  boy  on  the 
ground.  Jim  was  the  son  of  James  Barlow, 
lately  come  into  the  possession  of  the  corner 
grocery.  Bob  was  the  son  of  "Handy  Mike," 
who  worked  out  by  the  day,  doing  "odd  jobs" 
for  the  neighboring  housewives. 

"I  hain't  no  doubt  of  it,"  Bob  was  saying, 
with  mock  solemnity.  "Yer  dad  can  eat  more 
an'  run  faster  an'  jump  higher  an'  shoot 
straighter  than  any  man  what  walks  round." 

"Shucks!"  retorted  the  boy  on  the  fence, 
with  a  quick,  frown.  "That  ain't  what  I  said, 
and  you  know  it." 

"So?"  teased  Bob.  "Well,  now,  'twas  all  I 
166 


The  Saving  of  Dad 

could  remember.    There's  lots  more,  'course, 
only  I  furgit  'em,  an'  — " 

"Shut  up!"  snapped  Jim  tersely. 

"  'Course  ev'ry  one  knows  he's  only  a  sam- 
ple," went  on  Bob  imperturbably.  "An'  so 
he's  handsomer  an' — " 

"Will  you  quit?"  demanded  Jim  sharply. 

"No,  I  won't,"  retorted  Bob,  with  a  quick 
change  of  manner.  "You  've  been  here  just  two 
weeks,  an'  it  hain't  been  nothin'  but  'Dad  says 
this,'  an'  'Dad  says  that,'  ever  since.  Jiminy! 
a  feller 'd  think  you'd  made  out  ter  have  the 
only  dad  that's  goin'!" 

There  was  a  pause  —  so  long  a  pause  that 
the  boy  on  the  grass  sent  a  sideways  glance  at 
the  motionless  figure  on  the  fence. 

"It  wa'n't  right,  of  course,"  began  Jim,  at 
last,  awkwardly,  "crowin'  over  dad  as  I  do.  I 
never  thought  how  —  how  't  would  make  the 
rest  of  you  fellers  feel."  Bob,  on  the  grass, 
bridled  and  opened  his  lips,  but  something  in 
Jim's  rapt  face  kept  him  from  giving  voice  to 
his  scorn.  "  'Course  there  ain't  any  one  like 
dad  —  there  can't  be,"  continued  Jim  hur- 
riedly. "He  treats  me  white,  an'  he's  straight 

167 


The  Tangled  Threads 

there  every  time.    Dad  don't  dodge.    Maybe 
I  should  n't  say  so  much  about  him,  only  - 
well,  me  an'  dad  are  all  alone.  There  ain't  any 
one  else;  they're  dead." 

The  boy  on  the  grass  turned  over  and  kicked 
both  heels  in  the  air;  then  he  dug  at  the  turf 
with  his  forefinger.  He  wished  he  would  not 
think  of  his  mother  and  beloved  little  sister 
May  just  then.  He  opened  his  eyes  very  wide 
and  winked  hard,  once,  twice,  and  again.  He 
tried  to  speak;  failing  in  that,  he  puckered  his 
lips  for  a  whistle.  But  the  lips  twitched  and 
would  not  stay  steady,  and  the  whistle,  when 
it  came,  sounded  like  nothing  so  much  as  the 
far-away  fog-whistle  off  the  shore  at  night. 
With  a  snort  of  shamed  terror  lest  that  lump 
in  his  throat  break  loose,  Bob  sprang  upright 
and  began  to  turn  a  handspring  with  variations. 

"Bet  ye  can't  do  this,"  he  challenged  thickly. 

"Bet  ye  I  can,"  retorted  Jim,  landing  with 
a  thump  at  Bob's  side. 

It  was  after  supper  the  next  night  that  the 
two  boys  again  occupied  the  fence  and  the 
grass-plot.  They  had  fallen  into  the  way  of 
discussing  at  this  time  the  day's  fires,  dog- 

168 


The  Saving  of  Dad 

fights,  and  parades.  To-day,  however,  fires 
had  been  few,  dog-fights  fewer,  and  parades  so 
very  scarce  that  they  numbered  none  at  all. 
Conversation  had  come  to  a  dead  pause,  when 
Jim,  his  eyes  on  the  rod  of  sidewalk  visible 
from  where  he  sat,  called  softly: 

"Hi,  Bob,  who's  the  guy  with  the  plug?" 

Bob  raised  his  head.  He  caught  a  glimpse  of 
checkered  trousers,  tail-coat,  and  tall  hat,  then 
he  dropped  to  the  ground  with  a  short  laugh. 

"Yes,  who  is  it?"  he  scoffed.  "Don't  ye 
know?" 

"Would  I  be  askin'  if  I  did?"  demanded  Jim. 

"Humph!"  grunted  the  other.  "Well,  you'll 
know  him  fast  enough  one  of  these  days,  sonny, 
never  fear.  There  don't  no  one  hang  out  here 
more'n  a  month  'fore  he  spots  'em." 

"< Spots  'em'!" 

"Sure!  He's  Danny  O'Flannigan." 

"Well?" 

Into  Bob's  face  came  a  look  of  pitying  deri- 
sion. 

"  'Well,' "  he  mocked.  "Mebbe  't  will  be 
'well,'  an'  then  again  mebbe  't  won't.  It  all 
depends  on  yer  dad." 

169 


The  Tangled  Threads 

"On  dad!" 

"Sure!  He's  Danny  O'Flannigan,  the  boss 
o'  this  ward." 

"  But  what  has  that  got  to  do  with  my  dad  ? " 

"Aw,  come  off —  as  if  ye  did  n't  know!  It 
all  depends  whether  he's  nailed  him  or  not." 

"< Nailed  him'!" 

"Sure.  If  he  nails  him  fur  a  friend,  he  gits 
customers  an'  picnics  an'  boo-kays  all  the  time. 
If  he  don't — "  Bob  made  a  wry  face  and  an 
expressive  gesture. 

The  frown  that  had  been  gathering  on  Jim's 
brow  fled. 

"Ho!  "he  laughed.  "Don't  you  worry.  Dad 
always  nails  folks  —  never  misses  hittin'  'em 
on  the  head,  either,"  he  added,  in  reckless  tri- 
umph, confident  that  there  was  nothing  "dad" 
could  not  do. 

The  boy  on  the  grass  sat  up  and  stared; 
then  he  lay  back  and  gave  a  hoarse  laugh  —  a 
long,  chuckling  laugh  that  brought  the  frown 
back  to  Jim's  face. 

"Well,  what  you  laughin'  at?"  demanded 
Jim  sharply. 

"Oh,  gee,  gee!  —  that's  too  good!"  gurgled 
170 


The  Saving  of  Dad 

the  boy  on  the  grass,  rolling  from  side  to  side. 
"The  saint,  the  sample,  the  pattern,  the  feller 
what  treats  'em  square,  a-sellin'  his  vote!  Oh, 
gee,  gee!" 

The  ground  suddenly  shook  with  the  impact 
of  two  sturdy  little  feet,  and  Bob  found  his 
throat  in  the  grasp  of  two  strong  little  hands. 

"Bob  Sullivan,  quit  yer  laughin'  an'  tell  me 
what  you're  talkin'  about,"  stormed  a  shrill 
treble.  "Who's  a-sellin'  their  vote?" 

Bob  squirmed  and  struggled. 

"A  feller  —  can't  talk  —  without  —  breath- 
in'!"  he  choked. 

"Well,  then,  —  breathe!"  commanded  Jim, 
jerking  his  companion  to  a  sitting  posture  and 
loosening  his  clasp  on  his  throat.  "Now  — 
who's  a-sellin'  their  vote?" 

"Ye  said  it  yerself,  I  did  n't,"  snarled  Bob 
sullenly. 

"Said  what?" 

"That  yer  dad  would  nail  Danny  O'Flanni- 
gan,  sure." 

"And  is  that  sellin'  his  vote?" 

"What  else  is  it,  then?"  demanded  Bob 
wrathfully.  "He  votes  as  Danny  says,  an' 

171 


The  Tangled  Threads 

Danny  sends  him  trade,  an'  —  oh,  oh,  q-quit 
it  —  q-quit  it — I  say!"  choked  Bob,  breath 
and  speech  almost  cut  off  by  the  furious  clutch 
of  Jim's  lean  little  fingers. 

"I  won't  quit  it;  I  won't!"  stormed  Jim, 
shaking  his  victim  with  a  force  that  was  as 
strong  as  it  was  sudden.  "You  know  I  never 
meant  it  that  way;  an'  dad  won't  sell  his  vote; 
he  won't  —  he  won't  —  he  won't!" 

The  next  instant  a  wrathful,  palpitating  Bob 
lay  alone  on  the  grass,  while  a  no  less  wrath- 
ful and  palpitating  Jim  vaulted  the  fence  at  a 
bound  and  disappeared  into  the  next  house. 

Jim  awoke  the  next  morning  with  a  haunt- 
ing sense  that  something  had  happened.  In 
a  moment  he  remembered;  and  with  memory 
came  rage  and  a  defiant  uptilting  of  the  chin. 

As  if  dad  —  dad  could  do  this  thing!  Very 
possibly  —  even  probably  —  Handy  Mike  had 
long  ago  gone  down  before  this  creature  in  the 
checkered  trousers  and  tall  hat;  but  dad  — 
dad  was  not  Handy  Mike! 

The  ins  and  outs,  the  fine  points,  the  ethics 
of  it  all  were  not  quite  clear  to  Jim;  but  the 
derision  in  Bob's  laugh  was  unmistakable;  and 

172 


The  Saving  of  Dad 

on  that  derision  and  on  that  laugh  hung  his 
unfaltering  confidence  that  dad  would  not, 
could  not,  do  anything  to  merit  either. 

For  three  nights  the  boys  shunned  the  fence 
and  the  back  yard.  On  the  fourth  night,  as  if 
by  common  impulse,  each  took  his  accustomed 
place,  wearing  an  elaborate  air  of  absolute 
forgetfulness  of  the  past.  There  had  been  two 
fires  and  a  parade  that  day,  so  any  embarrass- 
ment that  the  situation  held  was  easily  talked 
down.  Not  until  Handy  Mike  on  the  side 
porch  of  his  dilapidated  cottage  had  greeted  a 
visitor  did  there  come  a  silence  between  the 
two  boys.  Even  then  it  did  not  last  long,  for 
Bob  broke  it  with  a  hoarse  whisper. 

"It's  Danny  O'Flannigan,  sure's  a  gun! 
It's  gittin'  mos'  'lection-time,  an'  he's  drum- 
min'  'em  up.  Now,  jest  watch  pap.  He  hain't 
no  use  fur  Danny.  Oh,  of  course,"  he  added,  in 
hurried  conciliation,  "  't  ain't  as  if  it  made 
any  difference  ter  pap.  Pap  works  fur  the 
women-folks,  an'  women  don't  cut  much  ice 
in  pol'tics." 

And  Jim  did  watch  —  with  his  eyes  wide 
open  and  his  hands  so  tightly  clenched  they 

173 


The  Tangled  Threads 

fairly  ached.  He  could  not  hear  the  words, 
but  he  could  the  voices,  and  he  noted  that  for 
the  first  five  minutes  one  was  jovial,  the  other 
sullen;  and  for  the  next  five  minutes  one  was 
persuasive,  the  other  contradictory;  and  for 
the  third  five  minutes  one  was  angry  and  the 
other  back  to  its  old  sullenness.  Then  he  saw 
that  Danny  O'Flannigan  jerked  himself  to  his 
feet  and  strode  away,  leaving  Handy  Mike 
stolidly  smoking  on  the  side  porch. 

"Humph!"  muttered  Bob.  "Danny  hung  to 
longer  'n  I  thought  he  would.  Must  be  some- 
thin'  special's  up." 

It  was  on  the  next  night  that  Jim,  from 
his  perch  on  the  back  fence,  saw  the  check- 
ered trousers  and  tall  hat  on  his  own  doorstep. 
Bob,  on  the  grass  below,  could  not  see,  so  Jim 
held  his  breath  while  the  door  opened  and 
his  father  admitted  Danny  O'Flannigan  to  the 
house. 

Jim's  heart  swelled,  and  his  eyes  flashed  with 
pride.  Now,  we  should  see  how  a  man  dealt  with 
this  thing.  Surely  now  there  would  be  no  fif- 
teen minutes'  dallying.  Danny  O'Flannigan 
would  soon  find  out  what  sort  of  a  person  he  had 

174 


The  Saving  of  Dad 

to  deal  with.  He  would  see  that  dad  was  not 
Handy  Mike. 

It  was  on  Jim's  lips  to  speak  to  Bob,  that 
Bob  might  share  with  him  the  sight  of  Danny 
O'Flannigan's  discomfiture.  He  longed  to  dis- 
play this  overwhelming  proof  of  the  falseness  of 
Bob's  assertion  that  dad  would  sell  his  vote; 
but  —  best  let  by-gones  be  by-gones;  he  had 
punished  Bob  for  that,  and,  after  all,  Handy 
Mike  was  Bob's  father.  He  could  tell  Bob  of  it 
later  —  how  dad  had  sent  Danny  O'Flannigan 
to  the  right-about  at  once.  Yes,  that  was  the 
better  way. 

So  Jim  schooled  himself  to  hide  his  exulta- 
tion, and  he  listened  with  well-feigned  interest 
to  Bob's  animated  account  of  the  morning's 
fire. 

Two,  three,  five  minutes  passed,  and  Danny 
O'Flannigan  had  not  come  out.  Jim  hitched 
about  on  his  narrow  perch,  and  sent  furtive 
glances  across  the  expanse  of  yard  to  his  own 
door.  Six,  seven,  ten  minutes  passed;  Jim's 
throat  grew  dry,  and  his  fingers  cold  at  their 
tips.  His  eyes  had  long  ago  ceased  to  look  at 
Bob ;  they  were  fixed  in  growing  horror  on  that 

175 


The  Tangled  Threads 

closed  door,  behind  which  were  dad  —  and 
that  man.  Eleven,  thirteen,  fifteen  minutes 
passed. 

" I  — -  I'm  goin'  in  now," faltered  Jim.  "I  —  I 
reckon  I  don't  feel  well,"  he  finished  thickly,  as 
he  slipped  to  the  ground  and  walked  unsteadily 
across  the  yard. 

In  the  woodshed  he  stopped  short  at  the  kit- 
chen door.  A  murmur  of  voices  came  from  far 
inside,  and  Jim's  knees  shook  beneath  him  — 
it  was  not  so  —  it  could  not  be  possible  that  dad 
was  still  talking!  Jim  stole  through  the  back 
hallway  and  out  on  to  the  grass  beneath  the 
sitting-room  windows  on  the  other  side  of  the 
house.  The  voices  were  louder  now  —  the  vis- 
itor's very  loud. 

Jim  raised  his  head  and  tried  to  smile. 

Of  course!  —  dad  was  sending  him  about  his 
business,  and  the  man  was  angry  —  that  was 
it.  It  had  taken  longer  than  he  thought,  but 
dad  —  dad  never  did  like  to  hurt  folks'  feelings. 
Some  men  —  some  men  did  not  care  how  they 
talked;  but  not  dad.  Why,  dad  —  dad  did  not 
even  like  to  kill  a  mouse;  he  — 

There  came  the  sound  of  a  laugh  —  a  long, 
176 


The  Saving  of  Dad 

ringing  laugh  with  a  gleeful  chuckle  at  the  end. 
Jim  grew  faint.  That  was  —  dad! 

Ten  seconds  later  the  two  men  in  the  sitting- 
room  were  confronted  by  a  white-faced,  shak- 
ing boy. 

"Maybe  you  did  n't  know,  Mr.  O'Flannigan," 
began  Jim  eagerly,  "maybe  you  did  n't  know 
that  dad  don't  speak  sharp.  He  ain't  much  for 
hurtin'  folks'  feelings;  but  he  means  it  just  the 
same  —  that  he  won't  do  what  you  want  him  to 
do.  He 's  square  and  straight  —  dad  is,  an'  he 
don't  dodge;  but  maybe  you  thought  'cause  he 
laughed  that  he  was  easy  —  but  he  ain't.  Why, 
dad  would  n't  — " 

"Tut,  tut,  not  so  fast,  my  boy,"  cut  in  Danny 
O'Flannigan  pompously.  "Your  father  has  al- 
ready — " 

A  strong  hand  gripped  O'Flannigan's  shoul- 
der, and  an  agonized  pair  of  eyes  arrested  his 
words. 

"For  God's  sake,  man,"  muttered  Barlow, 
"have  you  no  mercy?  Think  —  have  you  no 
son  of  your  own  that  believes  you  're  almost  — 
God  Himself?" 

For  a  brief  instant  Danny  O'Flannigan's  eye- 
177 


The  Tangled  Threads 

brows  and  shoulders  rose  in  an  expressive  ges- 
ture, and  his  hands  made  a  disdainful  sweep; 
then  his  eyes  softened  strangely. 

"As  you  please,"  he  said,  and  reached  for  his 
hat  with  an  air  that  was  meant  to  show  indiffer- 
ence. "Then  the  deal  is  off,  I  suppose." 

"There!"  crowed  Jim,  as  the  door  clicked  be- 
hind the  checkered  trousers.  "There,  I  knew 
you'd  do  it,  dad.  Just  as  if —  Why,  dad, 
you  're  —  cryin'!  Pooh !  who  cares  for  Danny 
O'Flannigan?"  he  soothed,  patting  the  broad 
shoulders  bowed  low  over  the  table.  "  I  would 
n't  cry  for  him!" 


Millionaire  Mike's 
Thanksgiving 

HE  was  not  Mike  at  first;  he  was  only  the 
Millionaire  —  a  young  millionaire  who  sat 
in  a  wheel  chair  on  the  pier  waiting  for  the 
boat.  He  had  turned  his  coat-collar  up  to  shut 
out  the  wind,  and  his  hatbrim  down  to  shut  out 
the  sun.  For  the  time  being  he  was  alone.  He 
had  sent  his  attendant  back  for  a  forgotten 
book. 

It  was  Thanksgiving,  but  the  Millionaire  was 
not  thankful.  He  was  not  thinking  of  what  he 
had,  but  of  what  he  wanted.  He  wanted  his  old 
strength  of  limb,  and  his  old  freedom  from  pain. 
True,  the  doctors  had  said  that  he  might  have 
them  again  in  time,  but  he  wanted  them  now. 
He  wanted  the  Girl,  also.  He  would  have  her, 
to  be  sure,  that  very  evening;  but  he  wanted 
her  now. 

The  girl  had  been  very  sweet  and  gentle 
about  it,  but  she  had  been  firm.  As  he  could 

179 


The  Tangled  Threads 

recollect  it,  their  conversation  had  run  some- 
thing like  this: 

"But  I  want  you  myself,  all  day." 

"  But,  Billy,  don't  you  see?  I  promised;  be- 
sides, I  ought  to  do  it.  I  am  the  president  of 
the  club.  If  I  shirk  responsibility,  what  can  I 
expect  the  others  to  do?" 

"But  I  need  you  just  as  much  —  yes,  more 
—  than  those  poor  families." 

"Oh,  Billy,  how  can  you  say  that,  when  they 
are  so  very  poor,  and  when  every  one  of  them 
is  the  proud  kind  that  would  simply  rather 
starve  than  go  after  their  turkey  and  things! 
That 's  why  we  girls  take  them  to  them.  Don't 
you  see?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  see.  I  see  I  don't  count.  It 
could  n't  be  expected  that  I  'd  count  —  now ! " 
And  he  patted  the  crutches  at  his  side. 

It  was  despicable  in  him,  and  he  knew  it. 
But  he  said  it.  He  could  see  her  eyes  now,  all 
hurt  and  sorrowful  as  she  went  away.  .  .  .  And 
so  this  morning  he  sat  waiting  for  the  boat,  a 
long,  lonely  day  in  prospect  in  his  bungalow 
on  the  island,  while  behind  him  he  had  left  the 
dearest  girl  in  the  world,  who,  with  other  petted 

1 80 


Mike's  Thanksgiving 

darlings  of  wealth  and  luxury,  was  to  distribute 
Thanksgiving  baskets  to  the  poor. 

Not  that  his  day  needed  to  be  lonely.  He 
knew  that.  A  dozen  friends  stood  ready  and 
anxious  to  supply  him  with  a  good  dinner  and 
plenty  of  companionship.  But  he  would  have 
none  of  them.  As  if  he  wanted  a  Thanksgiving 
dinner! 

And  thus  alone  he  waited  in  the  wheel  chair; 
and  how  he  abhorred  it  —  that  chair  —  which 
was  not  strange,  perhaps,  considering  the  auto- 
mobile that  he  loved.  Since  the  accident,  how- 
ever, his  injured  back  had  forbidden  the  speed 
and  jar  of  motor  cars,  allowing  only  the  slow 
but  exasperating  safety  of  crutches  and  a  wheel 
chair.  To-day  even  that  seemed  denied  him,  for 
the  man  who  wheeled  his  chair  did  not  come. 

With  a  frown  the  Millionaire  twisted  himself 
about  and  looked  behind  him.  It  was  near  the 
time  for  the  boat  to  start,  and  there  would  not 
be  another  for  three  hours.  From  the  street 
hurried  a  jostling  throng  of  men,  women,  and 
children.  Longingly  the  Millionaire  watched 
them.  He  had  no  mind  to  spend  the  next  three 
hours  where  he  was.  If  he  could  be  pushed  on 

181 


The  Tangled  Threads 

to  the  boat,  he  would  trust  to  luck  for  the  other 
side.  With  his  still  weak  left  arm  he  could  not 
propel  himself,  but  if  he  could  find  some  one  — 

Twice,  with  one  of  the  newspapers  that  lay 
in  his  lap,  he  made  a  feeble  attempt  to  attract 
attention;  but  the  Millionaire  was  used  to  com- 
manding, not  begging,  and  his  action  passed 
unnoticed.  He  saw  then  in  the  crowd  the  face 
of  a  friend,  and  with  a  despairing  gesture  he 
waved  the  paper  again.  But  the  friend  passed 
by  unheeding.  What  happened  then  was  so  en- 
tirely unexpected  that  the  Millionaire  fell  back 
in  his  chair  dumb  with  amazement. 

"Here,  Mike,  ye  ain't  on  ter  yer  job.  Youse 
can't  sell  nuttin'  dat  way,"  scoffed  a  friendly 
voice.  "Here,  now,  watch!"  And  before  the 
Millionaire  could  collect  his  wits  he  saw  the 
four  papers  he  had  bought  that  morning  to  help 
beguile  a  dreary  day,  snatched  into  the  grimy 
hands  of  a  small  boy  and  promptly  made  off 
with. 

The  man's  angry  word  of  remonstrance  died 
on  his  lips.  The  boy  was  darting  in  and  out  of 
the  crowd,  shouting  "Poiper,  here's  yer  poi- 
per!"  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  Nor  did  he  return 

182 


Mike's  Thanksgiving 

until  the  last  pair  of  feet  had  crossed  the  gang- 
plank. Then  in  triumph  he  hurried  back  to  the 
waiting  man  in  the  wheel  chair  and  dropped 
into  his  lap  a  tiny  heap  of  coppers. 

"Sold  out,  pardner!  Dat's  what  we  be,"  he 
crowed  delighted.  "Sold  out!" 

"But  —  I  —  you  —  "  gasped  the  man. 

"Aw,  furgit  it — 't  wa'n't  nuttin',"  dis- 
dained the  boy  airily.  "Ye  see,  youse  got  ter 
holler." 

"To  — to 'holler'!" 

"Sure,  Mike,  or  ye  can't  sell  nuttin'.  I  been 
a-watchin'  ye,  an'  I  see  right  off  ye  wa'n't  on  ter 
yer  job.  Why,  pardner,  ye  can't  sell  poipers 
like  ye  was  shellin'  out  free  sody-checks  at  a 
picnic.  Youse  got  ter  yell  at  'em,  an'  git  dere 
'tention.  'Course,  ye  can't  run  like  I  can"  — 
his  voice  softened  awkwardly  as  his  eyes  fell  to 
the  crutches  at  the  man's  side  —  "but  ye  can 
holler,  an'  not  jest  set  dere  a-shakin'  'em  easy 
at  'em,  like  ye  did  a  minute  ago.  Dat  ain't  no 
way  ter  sell  poipers!" 

With  a  half-smothered  exclamation  the  Mil- 
lionaire fell  back  in  his  chair.  He  knew  now  that 
he  was  not  a  millionaire,  but  a  "Mike"  to  the 

183 


The  Tangled  Threads 

boy.  He  was  not  William  Seymore  Haynes, 
but  a  cripple  selling  papers  for  a  living.  He 
would  not  have  believed  that  a  turned-up  col- 
lar, a  turned  down  soft  hat,  and  a  few  jerks  of 
a  newspaper  could  have  made  such  a  meta- 
morphosis. 

"Youse'll  catch  on  in  no  time  now,  pardner," 
resumed  the  boy  soothingly,  "an5  I'm  mighty 
glad  I  was  here  ter  set  ye  goin'.  Sure,  I  sells 
poipers  meself,  I  does,  an'  I  knows  how  't  is. 
Don't  look  so  flabbergasted.  'T  ain't  nuttin'. 
Shucks !  hain't  fellers  what 's  pardners  oughter 
do  a  turn  fur  't  odder?" 

The  Millionaire  bit  his  lip.  He  had  intended 
to  offer  money  to  this  boy,  but  with  his  gaze  on 
that  glowing  countenance,  he  knew  that  he 
could  not.  He  had  come  suddenly  face  to  face 
with  something  for  which  his  gold  could  not  pay. 

"Th-  thank  you,"  he  stammered  embar- 
rassedly.  "You  —  you  were  very  kind."  He 
paused,  and  gazed  nervously  back  toward  the 
street.  "I  —  I  was  expecting  some  one.  We 
were  going  to  take  that  boat." 

"No!  Was  ye?  An'  he  did  n't  show  up?  Say, 
now,  dat's  tough  —  an'  T'anksgivin',  too!" 

184 


Mike's  Thanksgiving 

f  As  if  I  cared  for  Thanksgiving ! "  The  words 
came  tense  with  bitterness. 

"Aw,  come  now,  furgit  it ! "  There  was  a  look 
of  real  concern  on  the  boy's  face.  "Dat  ain't  no 
way  ter  talk.  It 's  T'anksgivin' ! " 

"Yes,  I  know  —  for  some."  The  man's  lips 
snapped  shut  grimly. 

"Aw,  come  off!  Never  mind  if  yer  pal  did  n't 
show  up.  Dere  's  odders;  dere  's  me  now.  Tell 
ye  what,  youse  come  home  wid  me.  Dere  won't 
be  no  boat  now  fur  a  heap  o'  time,  an'  I  'm  goin' 
ter  T'anksgive.  Come  on!  'T ain't  fur.  I'll 
wheel  ye." 

The  man  stared  frankly. 
"Er — thank  you,"  he  murmured,  with  an 
/odd  little  laugh;  "but—" 

:  Shucks !  'Course  ye  can.  What  be  ye  goin' 
o?  —  set  here?  What's  the  use  o'  mopin' 
like  dis  when  youse  got  a  invite  out  ter  T'anks- 
ivin'  ? '  An'  ye  better  catch  it  while  it 's  goin', 
Ye  see,  some  days  I  could  n't  ask  ye  — 
not  grub  enough ;  but  I  can  ter-day.  We  got  a 
s'prise  comin'." 

"  Indeed ! "  The  tone  was  abstracted,  almost 
'irritable;  but  the  boy  ignored  this. 

185 


The  Tangled  Threads 

" Sure!  It 's  a  dinner —  a  T'anksgivin'  dinner 
bringed  in  to  us.  Now  ain't  ye  comin'  ? " 

"A  dinner,  did  you  say?  —  brought  to  you?" 

"Yeaup!" 

"Who  brings  it?" 

"A  lady  what  comes  ter  see  me  an'  Kitty 
sometimes;  an'  she's  a  peacherino,  she  is!  She 
said  she  'd  bring  it." 

"Do  you  know  —  her  name?"  The  words 
came  a  little  breathlessly. 

"You  bet!  Why,  she's  our  friend,  I  tell  ye! 
Her  name  is  Miss  Daisy  Carrol  ton;  dat  's  what 


't  is." 


The  man  relaxed  in  his  chair.  It  was  the 
dearest  girl  in  the  world. 

"Say,  ain't  ye  comin'?"  urged  the  boy, 
anxiously. 

"Coming?  Of  course  I'm  coming,"  cried  the 
man,  with  sudden  energy.  "Just  catch  hold  of 
that  chair  back  there,  lad,  and  you'll  see." 

"Say,  now,  dat's  sumpin'  like,"  crowed  the 
boy,  as  he  briskly  started  the  chair.  "  'T  ain't 
fur,  ye  know." 

Neither  the  boy  nor  the  Millionaire  talked 
much  on  the  way.  The  boy  was  busy  with  his 

186 


Mike's  Thanksgiving 

task ;  the  man,  with  his  thoughts.  Just  why  he 
was  doing  this  thing  was  not  clear  even  to  the 
man  himself.  He  suspected  it  was  because  of  the 
girl.  He  could  fancy  her  face  when  she  should 
find  that  it  was  to  him  she  was  bringing  her  tur- 
key dinner!  He  roused  himself  with  a  start.  The 
boy  was  speaking. 

"My!  but  I  'm  glad  I  stopped  an'  watched  ye 
tryin'  ter  sell  poipers.  T'ink  o'  youse  a-settin' 
dere  all  dis  time  a-waitin'  fur  dat  boat  —  an' 
T'anksgivin',  too!  An'  don't  ye  worry  none. 
Ma  an'  Kitty  '11  be  right  glad  to  see  ye.  'T  ain't 
often  we  can  have  comp'ny.  It 's  most  allers  us 
what 's  takin'  t'ings  give  ter  us — not  givin'  our- 
selves." 

"Oh,"  replied  the  man  uncertainly.  "Is  — 
is  that  so?" 

With  a  distinct  shock  it  had  come  to  the  mil- 
lionaire that  he  was  not  merely  the  disgruntled 
lover  planning  a  little  prank  to  tease  the  dearest 
girl  in  the  world.  He  was  the  honored  guest  of 
a  family  who  were  rejoicing  that  it  was  in  their 
power  to  give  a  lonely  cripple  a  Thanksgiving 
dinner.  His  face  grew  red  at  the  thought. 

"Ugh-uh.   An',  oh,  I  say,  what  is  yer  name, 


The  Tangled  Threads 

pardner?"  went  on  the  boy.   '"Course  I  called 
ye  'Mike,'  but— " 

"Then  suppose  you  still  call  me  'Mike,'  "  re- 
torted the  man,  nervously  wondering  if  he  could 
play  the  part.  He  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  beam- 
ing face  of  his  benefactor —  and  decided  that  he 
must  play  it. 

"A'  right,  den;  an'  here  we  be,"  announced 
the  boy  in  triumph,  stopping  before  a  flight  of 
steps  that  led  to  a  basement  door. 

With  the  aid  of  his  crutches  the  man  de- 
scended the  steps.  Behind  him  came  the  boy 
with  the  chair.  At  the  foot  the  boy  flung  wide 
the  door  and  escorted  his  guest  through  a  dark, 
evil-smelling  hallway,  into  a  kitchen  beyond. 

"Ma!  Kitty!  look  a-here!"  he  shouted,  leav- 
ing the  chair,  and  springing  into  the  room.  "  I  've 
bringed  home  comp'ny  ter  dinner.  Dis  is  Mike. 
He  was  sellin'  poipers  down  ter  de  dock,  an'  he 
lost  his  boat.  I  told  him  ter  come  on  here  an' 
eat  wid  us.  I  knowed  what  was  comin',  ye  see ! " 

"Why,  yes,  indeed,  of  course,"  fluttered  a 
wan-faced  little  woman,  plainly  trying  not  to 
look  surprised.  "Sit  down,  Mr.  Mike,"  she 
finished,  drawing  up  a  chair  to  the  old  stove. 

1 88 


Mike's  Thanksgiving 

"Thank  you,  but  I  —  I  —  '  The  man  looked 
about  for  a  means  of  escape.  In  the  doorway 
stood  the  boy  with  the  wheel  chair. 

"Here,  Mr.  Mike,  mebbe  youse  wanted  dis. 
Say,  Kitty,  ain't  dis  grand?"  he  ended  admir- 
ingly, wheeling  the  chair  to  the  middle  of  the 
room. 

From  the  corner  came  the  tap  of  crutches, 
and  the  man  saw  then  what  he  had  not  seen  be- 
fore; a  slip  of  a  girl,  perhaps  twelve  years  old, 
with  a  helpless  little  foot  hanging  limp  below 
the  skirt-hem. 

"Oh,  oh!"  she  breathed,  her  eyes  aflame  with 
excitement.  "It  is  —  it  is  —  a  wheel  one!  Oh, 
sir,  how  glad  and  proud  you  must  be  —  with 
that!" 

The  man  sat  down,  though  not  in  the  wheel 
chair.  He  dropped  a  little  helplessly  into  the 
one  his  hostess  had  brought  forward. 

"Perhaps  you  —  you'd  like  to  try  it,"  he 
managed  to  stammer. 

"Oh,  can  I  ?  Thank  you! "  breathed  a  raptur- 
ous voice.  And  there,  for  the  next  five  minutes, 
sat  the  Millionaire  watching  a  slip  of  a  girl 
wheeling  herself  back  and  forth  in  his  chair  — • 

189 


The  Tangled  Threads 

his  chair,  which  he  had  never  before  suspected 
of  being  "fine"  or  "wonderful"  or  "grand" 
—  as  the  girl  declared  it  to  be. 

Shrinkingly  he  looked  about  him.  Nowhere 
did  his  eyes  fall  upon  anything  that  was  whole. 
He  had  almost  struggled  to  his  feet  to  flee  from 
it  all  when  the  boy's  voice  arrested  him. 

"Ye  see,  it's  comin'  'bout  noon  —  de  grub  is; 
an'  it 's  goin'  ter  be  all  cooked  so  we  can  begin  ter 
eat  right  off.  Dere,  how's  dat?"  he  questioned, 
standing  away  to  admire  the  propped-up  table 
he  and  his  mother  were  setting  with  a  few  broken 
dishes.  "Now  ain't  ye  glad  youse  ain't  down 
dere  a-waitin'  fur  a  boat  what  don't  come?" 

"Sure  I  am,"  declared  the  man,  gazing  into 
the  happy  face  before  him,  and  valiantly  de- 
termining to  be  Mike  now  no  matter  what  hap- 
pened. 

"An'  ain't  the  table  pretty!"  exulted  the  lit- 
tle girl.  "I  found  that  chiny  cup  with  the  gold 
on  it.  'Course  it  don't  hold  nothin',  'cause  the 
bottom's  fell  out;  but  it  looks  pretty  —  an' 
looks  counts  when  comp'ny 's  here!" 

The  boy  lifted  his  head  suddenly. 

"Look  a-here!  I'll  make  it  hold  sumpin',"  he 
190 


Mike's  Thanksgiving 

cried,  diving  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and 
bringing  out  five  coppers  and  a  dime.  "Youse 
jest  wait.  I  '11  get  a  posy  up  ter  de  square. 
'Course,  we  'd  ought  ter  have  a  posy,  wid  com- 
p'ny  here." 

"Hold  on!"  The  Millionaire's  hand  was  in 
his  pocket  now.  His  fingers  were  on  a  gold 
piece,  and  his  eyes  —  in  fancy  —  were  on  a 
glorious  riot  of  Jacqueminots  that  filled  the  lit- 
tle room  to  overflowing,  and  brought  a  won- 
drous light  to  three  pairs  of  unbelieving  eyes 
-  then  Mike  remembered.  "Here,"  he  said  a 
little  huskily,  "let  me  help."  But  the  fingers, 
when  he  held  them  out,  carried  only  the  dime 
that  Mike  might  give,  not  the  gold  piece  of 
the  Millionaire. 

"Aw,  g'wan,"  scoffed  the  boy,  jubilantly. 
"As  if  we'd  let  comp'ny  pay!  Dis  is  our  show!" 
And  for  the  second  time  that  day  the  Million- 
aire had  found  something  that  money  could  not 
buy. 

And  thus  it  happened  that  the  table,  a  lit- 
tle later,  held  a  centerpiece  of  flowers  —  four 
near-to-fading  pinks  in  a  bottomless,  gold- 
banded  china  cup. 

191 


The  Tangled  Threads 

It  was  the  man  who  heard  the  honk  of  a 
motor-car  in  the  street  outside.  Instinctively 
he  braced  himself,  and  none  too  soon.  There 
was  a  light  knock,  then  in  the  doorway  stood 
the  dearest  girl  in  the  world,  a  large  basket 
and  a  box  in  her  hands. 

"Oh,  how  lovely!  You  have  the  table  all 
ready,"  she  exclaimed,  coming  swiftly  forward. 
"And  what  a  fine  —  Billy!"  she  gasped,  as 
she  dropped  the  box  and  the  basket  on  the 
table. 

The  boy  turned  sharply. 

"Aw!  Why  did  n't  ye  tell  a  feller?"  he  re- 
proached the  man;  then  to  the  Girl:  "Does  ye 
know  him  ?  He  said  ter  call  him '  Mike.' ': 

The  man  rose  now.  With  an  odd  directness 
he  looked  straight  into  the  Girl's  startled  eyes. 

"Maybe  Miss  Carrol  ton  don't  remember  me 
much,  as  I  am  now,"  he  murmured. 

The  Girl  flushed.  The  man,  who  knew  her  so 
well,  did  not  need  to  be  told  that  the  angry 
light  in  her  eyes  meant  that  she  suspected  him 
of  playing  this  masquerade  for  a  joke,  and  that 
she  did  not  like  it.  Even  the  dearest  girl  in  the 
world  had  a  temper  —  at  times. 

192 


Mike's  Thanksgiving 

"But  why  —  are  you  —  here?"  she  asked  in 
a  cold  little  voice. 

The  man's  eyes  did  not  swerve. 

"Jimmy  asked  me  to  come." 

"He  asked  you  to  come!" 

"Sure  I  did,"  interposed  Jimmy,  with  all  the 
anxiety  of  a  host  who  sees  his  guest,  for  some 
unknown  reason,  being  made  uncomfortable. 
"I  knowed  youse  would  n't  mind  if  we  did  ask 
comp'ny  ter  help  eat  de  dinner,  an'  he  lost  his 
boat,  ye  see,  an'  had  a  mug  on  him  as  long  as  me 
arm,  he  was  that  cut  up  'bout  it.  He  was  sellin' 
poipers  down  t'  de  dock." 

"Selling  papers!" 

"As  it  happened,  I  did  not  sell  them,"  inter- 
posed the  man,  still  with  that  steady  meeting  of 
her  eyes.  "Jimmy  sold  them  for  me.  He  will 
tell  you  that  I  was  n't  on  to  my  job,  so  he 
helped  me  out." 

"Aw,  furgit  it,"  grinned  Jimmy  sheepishly. 
"Dat  wa'n't  nuttin'.  I  only  showed  him  ye 
could  n't  sell  no  poipers  widout  hollerin'." 

A  curious  look  of  admiration  and  relief  came 
to  the  face  of  the  Girl.  Her  eyes  softened.  "You 
mean  —  " 

193 


The  Tangled  Threads 

She  stopped,  and  the  man  nodded  his  head 
gravely. 

"Yes,  miss.  I  was  alone,  waiting  for  Thomp- 
son. He  must  have  got  delayed.  I  had  four 
papers  in  my  lap,  and  after  Jimmy  had  sold 
them  and  the  boat  had  gone,  he  very  kindly 
asked  me  to  dinner,  and  —  I  came." 

"Whew!  Look  at  dis!"  cried  an  excited  voice. 
Jimmy  was  investigating  the  contents  of  the 
basket.  "  Say,  Mike,  we  got  turkey!  Ye  see," 
he  explained,  turning  to  Miss  Carrol  ton,  "he 
kinder  hung  back  fur  a  while,  an'  wa'n't  fast  on 
comin'.  An'  I  did  hope  't  would  be  turkey  — 
fur  company.  Folks  don't  have  comp'ny  ev'ry 
day!" 

"No,  folks  don't  have  company  every  day," 
repeated  the  Girl  softly;  and  into  the  longing 
eyes  opposite  she  threw,  before  she  went  away, 
one  look  such  as  only  the  dearest  girl  in  the 
world  can  give  —  a  look  full  of  tenderness  and 
love  and  understanding. 

Long  hours  later,  in  quite  a  different  place, 
the  Girl  saw  the  man  again.  He  was  not  Mike 
now.  He  was  the  Millionaire.  For  a  time  he 

194 


Mike's  Thanksgiving 

talked  eagerly  of  his  curious  visit,  chatting  ex- 
citedly of  all  the  delightful  results  that  were  to 
come  from  it;  rest  and  ease  for  the  woman;  a 
wheel  chair  and  the  best  of  surgeons  for  the  lit- 
tle girl;  school  and  college  for  the  boy.  Then, 
after  a  long  minute  of  silence,  he  said  something 
else.  He  said  it  diffidently,  and  with  a  rush  of 
bright  color  to  his  face  —  he  was  not  used  to 
treading  quite  so  near  to  his  heart. 

"I  never  thought,"  he  said,  just  touching  the 
crutches  at  his  side,  "that  I  'd  ever  be  thankful 
for  —  for  these.  But  I  was  —  almost  —  to-day. 
You  see,  it  was  they  that  —  that  brought  me — 
my  dinner,"  he  finished,  with  a  whimsicality 
that  did  not  hide  the  shake  in  his  voice. 


When  Mother  Fell  111 

TOM  was  eighteen,  and  was  spending  the 
long  summer  days  behind  the  village-store 
counter  —  Tom  hoped  to  go  to  college  in  the 
fall. 

Carrie  was  fifteen;  the  long  days  found  her 
oftenest  down  by  the  brook,  reading  —  Carrie 
was  a  bit  romantic,  and  the  book  was  usually 
poetry. 

Robert  and  Rosamond,  the  twins  —  known 
to  all  their  world  as  "Rob"  and  "Rose"- 
were  eight;  existence  for  them  meant  play,  food, 
and  sleep.  To  be  sure,  there  were  books  and 
school;  but  those  were  in  the  remote  past  or  dim 
future  together  with  winter,  mittens,  and  fires. 
It  was  summer,  now  —  summer,  and  the  two 
filled  the  hours  with  rollicking  games  and  glee- 
ful shouts  —  and  incidentally  their  mother's 
workbasket  with  numerous  torn  pinafores  and 
trousers. 

Behind  everything,  above  everything,  and 
beneath  everything,  with  all-powerful  hands 

196 


When  Mother  Fell  111 

and  an  all-wise  brain,  was  mother.  There  was 
father,  of  course;  but  father  could  not  cook  the 
meals,  sweep  the  rooms,  sew  on  buttons,  find 
lost  pencils,  bathe  bumped  foreheads,  and  do 
countless  other  things.  So  thought  Tom,  Carrie, 
and  the  twins  that  dreadful  morning  when 
father  came  dolefully  downstairs  and  said 
that  mother  was  sick. 

Mother  sick  !  Tom  stared  blankly  at  the  sugar 
bowl,  Carrie  fell  limply  into  the  nearest  chair, 
and  the  twins  began  to  cry  softly. 

The  next  thirty-six  hours  were  never  for- 
gotten by  the  Dudleys.  The  cool  nook  in  the 
woods  was  deserted,  and  Carrie  spent  a  hot,  dis- 
couraged morning  in  the  kitchen  —  sole  mis- 
tress where  before  she  had  been  an  all  too  sel- 
dom helper.  At  noon  Mr.  Dudley  and  Tom  came 
home  to  partake  of  underdone  potatoes  and 
overdone  meat.  The  twins,  repressed  and  ad- 
monished into  a  state  of  hysterical  nervousness, 
repaired  directly  after  dinner  to  the  attic.  Half 
an  hour  later  a  prolonged  wail  told  that  Rob 
had  cut  his  finger  severely  with  an  old  knife; 
and  it  was  during  the  attendant  excitement 
that  Rose  managed  to  fall  the  entire  length  of 
197 


The  Tangled  Threads 

the  attic  stairs.  At  night,  after  a  supper  of 
soggy  rolls  and  burnt  omelet,  Mr.  Dudley  sent 
an  appealing  telegram  to  "Cousin  Helen";  and 
the  next  afternoon,  at  five,  she  came. 

Miss  Helen  Mortimer  was  pretty,  sweet- 
tempered,  and  twenty-five.  The  entire  family 
fell  captive  to  her  first  smile.  There  was  a  world 
of  comfort  and  relief  in  her  very  presence,  and 
in  the  way  she  said  cheerily: 

"We  shall  do  very  well,  I  am  sure.  Carrie  can 
attend  to  her  mother,  and  I  will  take  the  helm 
downstairs." 

The  doctor  said  that  rest  and  quiet  was  what 
Mrs.  Dudley  most  needed,  so  Carrie's  task 
would  be  comparatively  light;  and  with  a  stout 
woman  to  come  twice  a  week  for  the  heavy 
work  downstairs,  the  household  gave  promise 
of  being  once  more  on  a  livable  basis. 

It  was  at  breakfast  the  next  morning  that 
the  first  cloud  appeared  on  Miss  Mortimer's 
horizon.  It  came  in  the  shape  of  the 
crisply  fried  potatoes  she  was  serving.  The 
four  children  were  eating  late  after  their  father 
had  left. 

"Oh,    Cousin   Helen,"  began  Tom,   in  an 
198 


When  Mother  Fell  111 

annoyed  manner,  "I  forgot  to  tell  you;  I  don't 
like  fried  potatoes.  I  have  baked  ones." 

"Baked  ones?" 

"Yes;  mother  always  baked  them  for  me." 

"Oh,  that 's  too  bad;  you  can't  eat  them, 
then,  —  they  hurt  you!" 

Tom  laughed. 

"Hurt  me?  Not  a  bit  of  it!  I  don't  like  them, 
that's  all.  Never  mind;  you  can  do  it  to- 


morrow." 


When  "to-morrow"  came  Miss  Mortimer 
had  not  forgotten.  The  big  round  dish  was 
heaped  with  potatoes  baked  to  a  turn. 

"Thank  you,  I'll  take  the  fried,"  said  Carrie, 
as  the  dish  was  passed  to  her. 

"The  f-fried?"  stammered  Miss  Mortimer. 

"Yes;  I  prefer  those." 

"But  there  are  no  fried.  I  baked  them." 

"Well,  how  funny!"  laughed  Carrie.  "I 
thought  we  had  it  all  fixed  yesterday.  I  thought 
we  were  to  have  both  fried  and  baked.  Mother 
always  did,  you  know.  You  see,  we  don't  like 
them  the  same  way.  Never  mind,"  she  added 
with  a  beaming  smile,  quite  misunderstanding 
the  look  on  her  cousin's  face,  "it  does  n't  matter 
199 


The  Tangled  Threads 

a  bit  and  you  must  n't  feel  so  bad.  It  '11  be  all 
right  to-morrow,  I  'm  sure." 

"Yes,  and  I  want  buckwheat  cakes,  please," 
piped  up  Rob. 

"All  right,  you  shall  have  them,"  agreed 
Cousin  Helen  with  a  smile. 

Tom  laughed. 

"Maybe  you  don't  quite  know  what  you  're 
getting  into,  Cousin  Helen,"  he  suggested.  "  If 
you  make  buckwheat  cakes  for  Rob  —  it 
means  graham  muffins  for  Rose." 

"And  she  shall  have  them;  the  very  next 
morning,  too." 

"Oh,  no,  that  will  never  do.  She  demands 
them  the  same  day." 

"What!" 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  didn't  understand," 
chuckled  Tom.  "When  you  make  one,  you  have 
to  make  both.  Mother  always  did  —  she  had 
to;  'twas  the  only  way  she  could  suit  both  the 
twins,  and  I  don't  believe  you  '11  find  any  other 
way  out  of  it.  As  for  us  —  we  don't  mind;  we 
eat  them  all!" 

"Oh!"  said  Cousin  Helen  faintly. 

"And  another  thing,"  resumed  Tom,  "we 
200 


When  Mother  Fell  111 

might  as  well  settle  the  drink  question  right 
away  —  of  course  you  '11  want  to  know.  Father 
is  the  only  one  who  drinks  cereal  coffee.  We 
(Carrie  and  I)  like  the  real  thing,  every  time; 
and  the  twins  have  cocoa  —  weak,  of  course,  so 
there  's  not  much  to  it." 

"And  you  must  n't  sweeten  mine  while 
you  're  cooking  it,"  interposed  Rose  decidedly. 

"  Sure  enough  —  lucky  you  thought  of  that," 
laughed  Tom,  "or  else  poor  Cousin  Helen  would 
have  had  another  mistake  to  fret  over.  You 
see,"  he  explained  pleasantly,  "Rose  insists  on 
putting  in  all  the  sugar  herself,  so  hers  has  to  be 
made  unsweetened;  but  Rob  is  n't  so  particular 
and  prefers  his  made  in  the  regular  way  — 
sweetened  while  cooking,  you  know." 

"Oh,  I  make  two  kinds  of  cocoa,  do  I?" 
asked  Cousin  Helen. 

"Yes  —  er  —  that  is,  in  two  ways." 

"Hm-m;  and  coffee  and  the  cereal  drink, 
making  four  in  all?"  continued  Cousin  Helen, 
with  ominous  sweetness. 

Tom  stirred  uneasily  and  threw  a  sharp 
glance  into  his  cousin's  face. 

."Well  —  er  —  it  does  seem  a  good  many; 

201 


The  Tangled  Threads 

but  —  well,  mother  did,  you  know,  and  we 
.might  as  well  have  what  we  want,  as  something 
different,  I  suppose,"  he  finished,  with  vague 
uneasiness. 

"  Oh,  certainly,  who  would  mind  a  small  thing 
like  that!"  laughed  Miss  Mortimer,  a  queer 
little  gleam  in  her  eyes. 

This  was  but  the  beginning.  On  the  pantry- 
shelf  were  four  kinds  of  cereals.  Carrie  ex- 
plained that  all  were  served  each  morning,  for 
the  family  could  n't  agree  on  any  particular 
one.  As  for  eggs ;  Tom  always  had  to  have  his 
dropped  on  a  slice  of  toast;  the  twins  liked 
theirs  scrambled;  but  Carrie  herself  preferred 
hers  boiled  in  the  shell.  Apple-pie  must  al- 
ways be  in  the  house  for  Tom,  though  it  so 
happened,  strangely  enough,  Carrie  said,  that 
no  one  else  cared  for  it  at  all. 

"Mother  was    always    making   apple-pie," 
laughed  Carrie  apologetically.    "You  see,  they 
get  stale  so  quickly,  and  Tom  is  the  only  one  to 
eat  them,  they  have  to  be  made  pretty  often  — 
one  at  a  time,  of  course." 

Bread,  rolls,  pastry,  meat,  vegetables  —  each 
had  its  own  particular  story,  backed  always  by 

202 


When  Mother  Fell  111 

that  ever-silencing  "mother  did,"  until  Miss 
Mortimer  was  almost  in  despair.  Sometimes 
she  made  a  feeble  protest,  but  the  children  were 
so  good-natured,  so  entirely  unaware  that  they 
were  asking  anything  out  of  the  ordinary,  and 
so  amazed  at  any  proposed  deviation  from  the 
established  rules,  that  her  protests  fell  power- 
less at  their  feet. 

"Mother  did"  —  "mother  did"  —  "mother 
did,"  Miss  Mortimer  would  murmur  wearily  to 
herself  each  day,  until  she  came  to  think  of  the 
tired  little  woman  upstairs  as  "Mother  Did" 
instead  of  "Aunt  Maria."  "No  wonder  'Mother 
Did'  fell  ill,"  she  thought  bitterly.  "Who 
wouldn't!" 

The  weeks  passed,  as  weeks  will  —  even  the 
dreariest  of  them  —  and  the  day  came  for 
Cousin  Helen  to  go  home,  Mrs.  Dudley  being 
now  quite  her  old  self.  Loud  were  the  regrets 
at  her  departure,  and  overwhelming  were  the 
thanks  and  blessings  showered  in  loving  profu- 
sion; but  it  was  two  weeks  later,  when  Tom, 
Carrie,  and  the  twins  each  sent  her  a  birthday 
present,  that  an  idea  came  to  Miss  Mortimer. 
She  determined  at  once  to  carry  it  out,  even 
203 


The  Tangled  Threads 

though  the  process  might  cause  her  some  heart- 
ache. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  Tom,  Carrie,  Rob, 
and  Rose,  each  received  a  letter  (together  with 
the  gift  each  had  sent)  almost  by  return  mail. 

Tom's  ran: 

My  dear  Cousin:  Thank  you  very  much  for 
the  novel  you  sent  me,  but  I  am  going  to  ask 
you  to  change  it  for  a  book  of  travels.  I  like  that 
kind  better,  and  mother  and  all  my  friends  give 
me  travels  whenever  they  want  to  please  me. 
I  might  as  well  have  something  I  want  as  some- 
thing different,  I  suppose,  so  I  am  asking  you  to 
change. 

Very  lovingly 

YOUR  COUSIN  HELEN 

Carrie  read  this : 

My  dear  Carrie:  Thank  you  for  the  pretty 
little  turnover  collar  and  cuffs  you  sent  me  for 
my  birthday;  but  I  think  it  is  so  funny  you  never 
noticed  that  I  don't  care  for  pink.  Mother  found 
it  out  even  when  I  was  but  little  more  than  a 
baby.  Oh,  I  can  wear  it,  but  I  don't  care  for  it. 
Don't  feel  badly,  however,  my  dear  Carrie;  all 
you've  got  to  do  is  just  to  take  these  back  and 
make  me  some  blue  ones,  and  I  know  you  won't 
mind  doing  that. 

Lovingly 

COUSIN  HELEN 
204 


When  Mother  Fell  111 

Rob's  letter  ran: 

My  dear  Rob:  I  am  writing  to  thank  you  for 
the  box  of  chocolates  you  sent  yesterday.  I  am 
sending  them  back  to  you,  though,  because  I  sel- 
dom eat  chocolates.  Oh,  no,  they  don't  hurt 
me,  but  I  don't  like  them  as  well  as  I  do  caramels, 
so  won't  you  please  change  them?  Mother  gives 
me  a  box  of  candy  every  Christmas,  but  it  is 
never  chocolates.  I  know  you  would  rather  give 
me  what  I  like,  Rob,  dear. 

Lots  of  love 

COUSIN  HELEN 

Rose  had  striven  early  and  late  over  a  cro- 
cheted tidy,  spending  long  hours  of  her  playtime 
in  doing  work  to  which  her  fingers  were  but  little 
accustomed.  She  confidently  expected  a  loving 
letter  of  thanks  and  praise,  and  could  scarcely 
wait  to  open  the  envelope.  This  is  what  she 
read: 

My  dear  Rose:  Thank  you  very  much  for  the 
tidy,  dear,  but  whatever  in  the  world  caused 
you  to  make  it  in  that  stitch  ?  I  like  shell-stitch 
ever  so  much  better,  so  would  you  mind  doing 
it  over  for  me?  I  am  returning  this  one,  for 
maybe  you  will  decide  to  ravel  it  out;  if  you  don't, 
you  can  just  make  me  a  new  one.  Mother  has 
crocheted  several  things  for  me,  but  most  of  them 
205 


The  Tangled  Threads 

are  in  shell-stitch,  which,  after  all,  is  about  the 
only  stitch  I  care  for. 

Lots  of  love  from 

YOUR  COUSIN  HELEN 

After  a  dazed  five  minutes  of  letter-reading, 
the  four  children  hurried  to  the  attic  —  always 
their  refuge  for  a  conference.  There  they  read 
the  four  letters  aloud,  one  after  another.  A 
dumfounded  silence  followed  the  last  word. 
Rose  was  the  first  to  break  it. 

"I  think  she's  a  mean  old  thing —  so  there!" 
Rose  was  almost  crying. 

"Hush,  dear,  hush!"  choked  Carrie.  "She 
is  n't  mean ;  she  's  good  and  kind  —  we  know 
she  is.  She  —  she  means  something  by  it;  she 
must.  Let 's  read  them  again!" 

Bit  by  bit  they  went  over  the  letters.  It  was 
at  the  third  mention  of  "mother"  that  Tom 
raised  his  head  with  a  jerk.  He  looked  sheep- 
ishly into  Carrie's  face. 

"I  —  I  guess  I  know,"  he  said  with  a  shame- 
faced laugh. 

It  must  have  been  a  month  later  that  Miss 
Mortimer  received  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Dudley. 

206 


When  Mother  Fell  111 

One  paragraph  sent  a  quick  wave  of  color  to  the 
reader's  face;  and  this  was  the  paragraph: 

I  am  feeling  better  than  for  a  long  time.  Some 
way,  the  work  does  n't  seem  nearly  so  hard  as  it 
used  to.  Perhaps  it  is  because  I  am  stronger,  or 
perhaps  it  is  because  the  children  are  not  nearly 
so  particular  about  their  food  as  they  used  to 
be.  I  am  so  glad,  for  it  worried  me  sometimes  — 
they  were  so  very  fussy.  I  wondered  how  they 
would  get  along  out  in  the  world  where  "mother" 
could  n't  fix  everything  to  their  liking.  Perhaps 
you  noticed  it  when  you  were  here.  At  any  rate, 
they  are  lots  better  now.  Perhaps  they  have  out- 
grown it.  I  hope  so,  I  'm  sure. 


The  Glory  and  the  Sacrifice 

THE  Honorable  Peter  Wentworth  was  not 
a  church-going  man,  and  when  he  ap- 
peared at  the  prayer-meeting  on  that  memo- 
rable Friday  evening  there  was  at  once  a  most 
irreligious  interest  manifested  by  every  one 
present,  even  to  the  tired  little  minister  himself. 
The  object  of  their  amazed  glances  fortunately 
did  not  keep  the  good  people  long  in  suspense. 
After  a  timid  prayer  —  slightly  incoherent,  but 
abounding  in  petitions  for  single  -mindedness 
and  worshipful  reverence  —  from  the  minister's 
wife,  the  Honorable  Peter  Wentworth  rose  to 
his  feet  and  loudly  cleared  his  throat: 

"Ahem!  Ladies  and  gentlemen  —  er  —  ah 
—  brethren,"  he  corrected,  hastily,  faint  mem- 
ories of  a  godly  youth  prompting  his  now  unac- 
customed lips;  "I  —  er — I  understand  that 
you  are  desirous  of  building  a  new  church.  A 
very  laudable  wish  —  very,"  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  a  zigzag  crack  in  the  wall  across  the 

208 


The  Glory  and  the  Sacrifice 

room;  "and  I  understand  that  your  funds  are 
—  er  —  insufficient.  I  am,  in  fact,  informed 
that  you  need  two  thousand  dollars.  Ahem! 
Ladies  —  er  —  brethren,  I  stand  here  to  an- 
nounce that  on  the  first  day  of  January  I  will 
place  in  your  pastor's  hands  the  sum  of  one 
thousand  dollars,  provided"  —  and  he  paused 
and  put  the  tips  of  his  forefingers  together  im- 
pressively—  "provided  you  will  raise  an  equal 
amount  on  your  own  part.  The  first  day  of  next 
January,  remember.  You  have  nearly  a  year, 
you  will  notice,  in  which  to  raise  the  money. 
I  —  er  —  I  hope  you  will  be  successful."  And 
he  sat  down  heavily. 

The  remainder  of  that  meeting  was  not  con- 
spicuous for  deep  spirituality,  and  after  the 
benediction  the  Honorable  Peter  Wentworth 
found  himself  surrounded  by  an  excited  crowd 
of  grateful  church  members.  The  honorable 
gentleman  was  distinctly  pleased.  He  had  not 
given  anything  away  before  since — well,  he  had 
the  same  curious  choking  feeling  in  his  throat 
now  that  he  remembered  to  have  felt  when  he 
gave  the  contents  of  his  dinner  pail  to  the  boy 
across  the  aisle  at  the  old  red  schoolhouse. 
209 


After  all,  it  was  a  rather  pleasant  sensation; 
he  almost  wished  it  had  oftener  been  his. 

It  was  not  until  the  silent  hours  of  the  night 
brought  a  haunting  premonition  of  evil  to  the 
Reverend  John  Grey  that  the  little  minister  be- 
gan to  realize  what  the  church  had  undertaken. 
One  thousand  dollars!  The  village  was  small 
and  the  church  society  smaller.  The  Honorable 
Peter  Wentworth  was  the  only  man  who  by 
even  the  politest  fiction  could  be  called  rich. 
Where,  indeed,  was  the  thousand  to  be  found  ? 

When  morning  came,  the  Reverend  John 
Grey's  kindly  blue  eyes  were  troubled,  and  his 
forehead  drawn  into  unwonted  lines  of  care; 
but  his  fathers  had  fought  King  George  and  the 
devil  in  years  long  past,  and  he  was  a  worthy  de- 
scendant of  a  noble  race  and  had  no  intention  of 
weakly  succumbing,  even  though  King  George 
and  the  devil  now  masqueraded  as  a  two- 
thousand-dollar  debt. 

By  the  end  of  the  week  an  urgent  appeal 
for  money  had  entered  the  door  of  every  house 
in  Fairville.  The  minister  had  spent  sleepless 
nights  and  weary  days  in  composing  this  mas- 
terly letter.  His  faithful  mimeograph  had  saved 
210 


The  Glory  and  the  Sacrifice 

the  expense  of  printing,  and  his  youngest  boy's 
willing  feet  had  obviated  the  necessity  of  post- 
age stamps.  The  First  Congregational  Church 
being  the  only  religious  organization  in  the  town 
of  Fairville,  John  Grey  had  no  hesitation  in 
asking  aid  from  one  and  all  alike. 

This  was  in  February,  yet  by  the  end  of  May 
there  was  only  four  hundred  dollars  in  the  fund 
treasury.  The  pastor  sent  out  a  second  appeal, 
following  it  up  with  a  house-to-house  visit.  The 
sum  grew  to  six  hundred  dollars. 

Then  the  ladies  held  a  mass-meeting  in  the 
damp,  ill-smelling  vestry.  The  result  was  a  series 
of  entertainments  varying  from  a  strawberry 
festival  to  the  "passion  play"  illustrated.  The 
entertainers  were  indefatigable.  They  fed  their 
guests  with  baked  beans  and  "red  flannel" 
hash,  and  acted  charades  from  the  Bible.  They 
held  innumerable  guessing  contests,  where  one 
might  surmise  as  to  the  identity  of  a  baby's 
photograph  or  conjecture  as  to  the  cook  of 
a  mince  pie.  These  heroic  efforts  brought  the 
fund  up  to  eight  hundred  dollars.  Two  hundred 
yet  to  be  found  —  and  it  was  November! 

With  anxious  faces  and  puckered  brows,  the 

211 


The  Tangled  Threads 

ladies  held  another  meeting  in  that  cheerless 
vestry  —  then  hastened  home  with  new  cour- 
age and  a  new  plan. 

Bits  of  silk  and  tissue-paper,  gay-colored 
worsteds  and  knots  of  ribbon  appeared  as  by 
magic  in  every  cottage.  Weary  fingers  fash- 
ioned impossible  fancy  articles  of  no  earthly  use 
to  any  one,  and  tired  housewives  sat  up  till  mid- 
night dressing  dolls  in  flimsy  muslin.  The  church 
was  going  to  hold  a  fair!  Everything  and  every- 
body succumbed  graciously  or  ungraciously 
to  the  inevitable.  The  prayer-meetings  were 
neglected,  the  missionary  meetings  postponed, 
the  children  went  ragged  to  school,  and  the  men 
sewed  on  their  own  buttons.  In  time,  however, 
the  men  had  to  forego  even  that  luxury,  and 
were  obliged  to  remain  buttonless,  for  they 
themselves  were  dragged  into  the  dizzy  whirl 
and  set  to  making  patchwork  squares. 

The  culminating  feature  of  the  fair  was  to  be 
a  silk  crazy  quilt,  and  in  an  evil  moment  Miss 
Wiggins,  a  spinster  of  uncertain  age,  had  sug- 
gested that  it  would  be  "perfectly  lovely"  to 
have  the  gentlemen  contribute  a  square  each. 
The  result  would  have  made  the  craziest  in- 
212 


The  Glory  and  the  Sacrifice 

mate  of  a  lunatic  asylum  green  with  envy.  The 
square  made  by  old  Deacon  White,  composed 
of  pieces  of  blue,  green,  scarlet,  and  purple  silk 
fastened  together  as  one  would  sew  the  leather 
on  a  baseball,  came  next  to  the  dainty  square  of 
the  town  milliner's  covered  with  embroidered 
butterflies  and  startling  cupids.  Nor  were  the 
others  found  wanting  irr  variety.  It  was  indeed 
a  wonderful  quilt. 

The  fair  and  a  blizzard  began  simultaneously 
the  first  day  of  December.  The  one  lasted  a 
week,  and  the  other  three  days.  The  people 
conscientiously  ploughed  through  the  snow,  at- 
tended the  fair,  and  bought  recklessly.  The 
children  made  themselves  sick  with  rich  candies, 
and  Deacon  White  lost  his  temper  over  a  tin 
trumpet  he  drew  in  a  grab  bag.  At  the  end  of 
the  week  there  were  three  cases  of  nervous  pros- 
tration, one  of  pneumonia,  two  of  grippe  —  and 
one  hundred  dollars  and  five  cents  in  money. 

The  ladies  drew  a  long  breath  and  looked 
pleased;  then  their  faces  went  suddenly  white. 
Where  was  ninety-nine  dollars  and  ninety-five 
cents  to  come  from  in  the  few  days  yet  remain- 
ing? Silently  and  dejectedly  they  went  home. 
213 


The  Tangled  Threads 

It  was  then  that  the  Reverend  John  Grey  rose 
to  the  occasion  and  shut  himself  in  his  study  all 
night,  struggling  with  a  last  appeal  to  be  copied 
on  his  faithful  mimeograph  and  delivered  by  his 
patient  youngest  born.  That  appeal  was  straight 
from  the  heart  of  an  all  but  despairing  man. 
Was  two  thousand  dollars  to  be  lost  —  and  be- 
cause of  a  paltry  ninety-nine  dollars  and  ninety- 
five  cents? 

The  man's  face  had  seemed  to  age  a  dozen 
years  in  the  last  twelve  months.  Little  streaks 
of  gray  showed  above  his  temples,  and  his 
cheeks  had  pitiful  hollows  in  them.  The  minis- 
ter's family  had  meat  but  twice  a  week  now. 
The  money  that  might  have  bought  it  for  the 
other  five  days  had  gone  to  add  its  tiny  weight 
to  the  minister's  contribution  to  the  fund. 

The  pressure  was  severe  and  became  crushing 
as  the  holidays  approached.  The  tree  for  the 
Sunday-School  had  long  since  been  given  up, 
but  Christmas  Eve  a  forlorn  group  of  wistful- 
eyed  children  gathered  in  the  church  and  spoke 
Christmas  pieces  and  sang  Christmas  carols, 
with  longing  gaze  fixed  on  the  empty  corner 
where  was  wont  to  be  the  shining  tree. 

214 


The  Glory  and  the  Sacrifice 

It  was  on  Christmas  Day  that  the  widow 
Blake  fought  the  good  fight  in  her  little  six-by- 
nine  room.  On  the  bed  lay  a  black  cashmere 
gown,  faded  and  rusty  and  carefully  darned; 
on  the  table  lay  a  little  heap  of  bills  and  silver. 
The  woman  gathered  the  money  in  her  two 
hands  and  dropped  it  into  her  lap ;  then  she 
smoothed  the  bills  neatly  one  upon  another, 
and  built  little  pyramids  of  the  dimes  andrquar- 
ters.  Fifteen  dollars !  It  must  be  five  years  now 
that  she  had  been  saving  that  money,  and  she 
did  so  need  a  new  dress !  She  needed  it  to  be  — 
why — even  decent!  —  looking  sourly  at  the 
frayed  folds  on  the  bed. 

It  was  on  Christmas  Day,  too,  that  the  little 
cripple  who  lived  across  the  bridge  received  a 
five-dollar  gold  piece  by  registered  mail.  Don- 
ald's eyes  shone  and  his  thin  fingers  clutched 
the  yellow  gold  greedily.  Now  he  could  have 
those  books!  —  his  eyes  rested  on  an  open 
letter  on  the  floor  by  his  chair;  a  mimeograph 
letter  signed  "John  W.  Grey."  Gradually  his 
fingers  relaxed;  the  bit  of  money  slipped  from 
the  imprisoning  clasp,  fell  to  the  floor,  and 
rolled  in  flashing,  gleaming  circles  round  and 
2IS 


The  Tangled  Threads 

round  the  letter,  ending  in  a  glistening  disk,  like 
a  seal,  just  at  the  left  of  the  signature.  The  lad 
looked  at  the  yellow,  whirling  thing  with  fright- 
ened eyes,  then  covered  his  face  with  his  hands, 
and  burst  into  a  storm  of  sobs. 

On  the  26th  of  December,  the  Reverend  John 
Grey  entered  on  his  list:  "Mrs.  Blake,  $15.00; 
Donald  Marsh,  $5.00." 

The  little  minister's  face  grew  pale  and 
drawn.  The  money  came  in  bit  by  bit,  but  it 
wanted  twenty  dollars  and  ninety-five  cents  yet 
to  complete  the  needed  thousand.  On  the  27th 
the  teacher  of  the  infant  class  brought  a  dollar, 
the  gift  of  her  young  pupils.  On  the  28th,  noth- 
ing came;  on  the  29th,  five  cents  from  a  small 
boy  who  rang  the  bell  with  a  peal  that  brought 
the  Reverend  John  Grey  to  the  door  with  a 
startled  hope  in  his  eyes.  He  took  the  five  pen- 
nies from  the  small  dirty  fingers  and  opened  his 
mouth  to  speak  his  thanks,  but  his  dry  lips 
refused  to  frame  the  words. 

The  morning  of  the  3Oth  dawned  raw  and 
cloudy.  The  little  minister  neither  ate  nor 
slept  now.  The  doorbell  rang  at  brief  intervals 
throughout  the  day,  and  stray  quarters,  dimes, 

216 


The  Glory  and  the  Sacrifice 

and  nickels,  with  an  occasional  dollar,  were 
added  to  the  precious  store  until  it  amounted 
to  nine  hundred  and  eighty-nine  dollars  and 
eighty-five  cents. 

When  the  Reverend  John  Grey  looked  out 
of  his  bedroom  window  on  the  last  day  of  that 
weary  year,  he  found  a  snow-white  world,  and 
the  feathery  flakes  still  falling.  Five  times  that 
day  he  swept  his  steps  and  shoveled  his  path  — 
mute  invitations  to  possible  donors;  but  the 
path  remained  white  and  smooth  in  untrodden 
purity,  and  the  doorbell  was  ominously  silent. 

He  tried  to  read,  to  write,  to  pray;  but  he 
haunted  the  windows  like  a  maiden  awaiting 
her  lover,  and  he  opened  the  door  and  looked 
up  and  down  the  street  every  fifteen  minutes. 
The  poor  man  had  exhausted  all  his  resources. 
He  himself  had  given  far  more  than  he  could 
afford,  and  he  had  begged  of  every  man,  woman 
and  child  in  the  place.  And  yet  —  must  two 
thousand  dollars  be  lost,  all  for  the  lack  of 
ten  dollars  and  fifteen  cents  ?  Mechanically  he 
thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and  fingered 
the  few  coins  therein. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  there  came  a 
217 


The  Tangled  Threads 

gentle  tap  at  the  study  door.  Without  waiting 
for  permission  the  minister's  wife  turned  the 
knob  and  entered  the  room.  Her  husband  sat 
with  bowed  head  resting  on  his  outstretched 
arms  on  the  desk,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears 
at  the  picture  of  despair  before  her. 

"John,  I  suppose  we  can  take  this,"  said  she, 
in  a  low  voice,  reluctantly  laying  a  little  pile  of 
silver  on  the  desk;  "there's  just  ten  dollars 
there."  Then  she  recoiled  in  terror,  so  wildly  did 
her  husband  clutch  the  money. 

"Where  did  you  get  this?"  he  gasped. 

"I  —  I  saved  it  from  time  to  time  out  of  the 
household  money.  I  meant  you  should  take  it 
and  go  out  to  Cousin  Frank's  for  a  rest  and  va- 
cation after  this  was  over,"  said  she  doggedly. 

"Vacation !  Mary — vacation ! "  he  exclaimed, 
with  unutterable  scorn.  Then  he  fumbled  in  his 
pocket  and  brought  out  a  little  change.  With 
trembling  fingers  he  picked  out  ten  pennies  and 
a  five-cent  piece,  putting  a  lone  quarter  back  in 
his  empty  pocket. 

"Thank  God,  Mary,  we've  done  it!"  and 
the  man's  voice  broke,  and  a  big  tear  rolled 
down  his  cheek  and  splashed  on  a  dingy  nickel. 

218 


The  Glory  and  the  Sacrifice 

New  Year's  night  there  was  a  jubilee  meeting 
in  the  town  hall.  The  Reverend  John  Grey  hur- 
ried through  his  bread-and-milk  supper  in  some 
excitement.  He  was  to  preside,  and  must  not 
be  late. 

The  hall  was  full  to  overflowing.  On  the  plat- 
form with  the  minister  sat  the  deacons  of  the 
First  Congregational  Church  —  and  the  Hon- 
orable Peter  Wentworth.  The  well-fed,  well- 
groomed,  honorable  gentleman  himself  looked 
about  with  a  complacent  smile  —  this  was  in- 
deed a  most  delightful  occasion. 

The  Reverend  John  Grey's  address  was  an 
eloquent  tribute  to  the  great  generosity  of  their 
distinguished  fellow-townsman.  The  minister's 
voice  trembled  affectingly,  and  his  thin  cheeks 
flushed  with  emotion.  The  First  Congregational 
Church  was  deeply  indebted  to  the  Honorable 
Peter  Wentworth,  and  would  fain  express  its 
gratitude. 

The  minister's  wife  listened  with  a  far-away 
look  on  her  face,  and  little  Donald  Marsh  gazed 
with  round  eyes  of  awe  at  the  great  man  who 
had  been  so  very  generous;  while  over  in  an 
obscure  corner  of  the  hall  a  pale  little  woman 
219 


The  Tangled  Threads 

stealthily  rearranged  the  folds  of  her  gown, 
that  she  might  hide  from  inquisitive  eyes  the 
great  darn  on  the  front  breadth  of  her  worn 
black  cashmere. 


The  Daltons  and  the  Legacy 

THE  legacy  amounted  to  ten  thousand  dol- 
lars; and  coming  as  it  did  from  a  little 
known,  scarcely  remembered  relative  it  seemed 
even  more  unreal  than  the  man  who  had 
bequeathed  it.  Not  until  lawyers'  visits  and 
numerous  official-looking  papers  had  convinced 
the  Daltons  beyond  the  smallest  doubt  did  the 
family  believe  their  good  fortune  genuine;  then, 
with  the  conviction,  came  all  the  overwhelming 
ambitions  and  unsatisfied  longings  of  past  years. 

"There,  now  we  can  leave  the  farm," 
exulted  Mrs.  Dalton. 

"Why,  Sarah,  do  —  do  you  think  that  is 
quite  —  wise?"  asked  her  husband. 

"Wise?  Of  course  it  is!"  she  returned  decid- 
edly. "  Why,  Caleb,  don't  you  know  ? — we  Ve 
always  wanted  to  go  to  the  city;  and  Cousin 
John  said  he  'd  give  you  a  place  in  his  store  any 
time,  so  you'll  earn  something  to  start  with 
right  away.  We  never  dared  to  before,  you 
know,  for  you  wa'n't  sure  how  you'd  do;  but 
221 


The  Tangled  Threads 

now  we  Ve  got  all  this  money  we  shan't  have 
to  worry  a  mite.  Oh,  is  n't  it  just  splendid, 
Caleb?" 

"Yes;  but  —  "  he  hesitated. 

"Why,  Caleb,  I  don't  believe  you  appreciate 
it  a  bit!" 

"Oh,  I  do,  indeed  I  do,  Sarah,  but — "  again 
he  hesitated. 

"But  there  is  n't  any  'but,'  Caleb,"  laughed 
Sarah,  and  turned  to  a  boy  of  twelve  and  a  girl 
of  fourteen  who  entered  the  room  at  that 
moment.  "We've  got  it  all  settled,  children. 
We  're  going  to  Boston,  sure,  this  fall." 

"Oh,  mother!" — Ethel's  hands  came  to- 
gether in  ecstasy,  while  Fred  whooped  in  glee. 

"There 's  the  lovely  big  stores  and  the  peo- 
ple," cried  Ethel. 

"And  the  cars  and  Bunker  Hill  Monument," 
supplemented  Fred. 

"And  we  won't  ever  have  to  come  back  to 
this  snippy  little  town,"  continued  Ethel. 

"My,  won't  Bill  Higgins  just  stare!"  inter- 
posed Fred.  "Oh,  I  say,  sis,  we  might  come 
back  just  once,  you  know,  just  to  tell  them 
about  things." 

222 


The  Daltons  and  the  Legacy 

"Yes,  that's  so,"  agreed  Ethel  readily;  "and 
—  say,  let's  tell  them  now  that  we're  going. 
Come  on ! "  she  finished  over  her  shoulder  as  she 
flew  through  the  door. 

"There,  Caleb,  I  told  you  how  it  would  be," 
smiled  Mrs.  Dalton  as  the  door  banged  behind 
Fred;  then,  anxiously:  "You  would  n't  want  to 
spoil  it  all,  now,  would  you?" 

"N-no;  but  —  no,  no,  of  course  not,"  mur- 
mured Caleb,  rising  to  his  feet  and  crossing  to 
the  outside  door  with  heavy,  slow-moving  steps. 

This  was  in  August.  By  the  middle  of  Sep- 
tember such  household  goods  as  the  Daltons 
had  planned  to  take  with  them  were  packed, 
burlapped,  crated,  and  labeled.  It  had  been 
Mrs.  Dalton's  idea  to  sell  the  rest  of  the  furni- 
ture and  the  farm  at  auction,  but  just  here  she 
encountered  an  unexpected  but  stubborn  re- 
sistance from  her  husband.  Consequently,  the 
remainder  of  the  goods  were  stored  in  the  attic, 
and  the  farm  was  rented  until  the  first  of  May 
—  the  house  being  close  to  the  village,  it  made 
a  not  undesirable  winter  residence.  A  longer 
lease  than  this  Caleb  would  not  grant,  in  spite 
of  his  wife's  remonstrances. 
223 


The  Tangled  Threads 

"Just  as  if  we  would  want  to  come  back  by 
May,  Caleb ! "  she  scoffed.  "Why,  by  that  time 
we  shall  be  real  city  folks,  and  you  '11  be  a  part- 
ner in  the  business,  maybe." 

"Hm-m,  —  maybe,"  echoed  Caleb  imper- 
turbably;  "but  —  we'll  see  when  May  comes." 

"Cousin  John"  in  Boston  had  received  the 
news  of  their  intended  coming  with  cordial  in- 
terest, and  had  already  procured  for  them  a 
six-room  apartment  in  Roxbury;  and  it  was  in 
his  thriving  market  and  grocery  store  on  Warren 
Avenue  that  Caleb  was  to  have  a  position  as 
clerk.  The  wages,  at  first,  were  not  large  — 
Cousin  John  explained  when  he  good-naturedly 
ran  up  to  the  farm  to  make  arrangements  — 
but  the  figures  looked  fabulous  to  Sarah  until 
John  told  her  that  they  must  pay  twenty-five 
dollars  every  month  for  their  flat. 

"Twenty-five  dollars,  and  not  even  a  spare 
room!"  she  gasped.  "Why,  John,  it's  too  nice 
—  it  must  be.  We  did  n't  want  such  a  fancy 


one." 


"Oh,  't  is  n't  fancy,"  laughed  the  man,  "not 
a  bit!  It's  clean  and  neat  and  on  a  respectable 
street.  Land  costs  something  down  there,  you 

224 


The  Daltons  and  the  Legacy 

know.  You  have  to  pay  something  for  rent. 
Why,  I  pay  fifty,  myself." 

"Oh,  oh!"  moaned  Sarah.  Then  she  threw 
back  her  head  with  an  assumed  courage.  "Never 
mind,  I  '11  just  have  to  change  my  plans  a  bit. 
I  did  n't  intend  to  keep  anything,  but  I  can  have 
just  a  few  hens  and  a  cow  as  well  as  not,  and 
that  will  help  some.  Like  enough  I  can  sell  a 
little  butter  and  what  eggs  I  don't  use,  too, 
and  —  "a  long,  hearty  laugh  interrupted  her. 

"Oh,  Cousin  Sarah,  Cousin  Sarah!"  choked 
John,  as  soon  as  he  could  find  his  voice. 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Dalton,  with  some  dignity, 
"I'm  waiting." 

Cousin  John  pulled  his  face  into  shape  and 
steadied  his  voice. 

"  Sarah,  your  flat  is  up  three  flights,  and  has 
n't  even  a  back  piazza.  Where  are  you  going  to 
keep  hens  and  cows?" 

Mrs.  Dalton's  jaw  fell. 

"Three  flights!"  she  gasped. 

He  nodded. 

"And  is  n't  there  a  yard,  or  —  or  anything?" 

"Not  that  belongs  to  you  —  except  the  fire 
escape  and  a  place  on  the  roof  to  dry  your 
225 


The  Tangled  Threads 

clpthes."  His  lips  were  twitching,  as  Mrs.  Dai- 
ton  was  not  slow  to  see. 

"Never  mind,"  she  retorted  airily.  "I  did  n't 
want  them,  anyhow,  and,  after  all,  we've  got 
the  money,  so  why  can't  we  take  a  little  good 
in  spending  it!" 

Some  weeks  later  when  Mrs.  Dalton  saw  her 
new  home,  she  did  n't  know  whether  to  laugh  or 
to  cry.  The  three  long  flights  of  stairs  and  dim, 
narrow  halls  filled  her  with  dismay,  but  the  en- 
trance with  its  shining  letter-boxes  and  leaded- 
glass  door-panels  overwhelmed  her  with  its 
magnificence.  The  big  brick  block  in  which  she 
was  to  live  looked  like  a  palace  to  her  eyes ;  but 
the  six  rooms  in  which  she  was  to  stow  herself 
and  family  amazed  and  disheartened  her  with 
their  diminutiveness. 

"Why,  Caleb,  I  —  I  can't  breathe—  they  're 
so  small!"  she  gasped.  Then  she  broke  off  sud- 
denly, as  she  glanced  through  the  window:  "Oh, 
my,  my —  who  'd  ever  have  thought  there  were 
so  many  roofs  and  chimneys  in  the  world!" 

Getting  settled  was  a  wonderful  experience. 
The  Dal  tons  had  never  moved  before,  and  it  took 
many  days  to  bring  even  a  semblance  of  order 

226 


The  Daltons  and  the  Legacy 

out  of  the  chaos  into  which  the  six  small  rooms 
were  thrown  by  the  unpacking  of  the  boxes  and 
barrels.  The  delay  worried  Sarah  more  than  did 
the  work  itself. 

"Oh,  dear,  Ethel,"  she  moaned  each  after- 
noon, "we're  so  slow  in  getting  settled,  and  I 
just  know  some  one  will  call  before  we  're  even 
half  fixed!" 

At  last  the  tiny  "parlor"  with  its  mirror- 
adorned  mantel  and  showy  gas  fixtures  —  the 
pride  of  Sarah's  heart  —  was  in  order;  and, 
after  that,  Sarah  made  sure  each  day  that  three 
o'clock  found  her  dressed  in  her  best  and  sitting 
in  solemn  state  in  that  same  parlor  waiting  for 
the  calls  that  were  surely  now  long  overdue. 

Days  passed,  and  her  patience  was  unre- 
warded save  for  a  sharp  ring  from  a  sewing-ma- 
chine agent,  and  another  from  a  book  canvasser. 

Sarah  could  not  understand  it.  Surely,  her 
neighbors  in  the  block  must  know  of  her]arrival 
even  if  those  in  her  immediate  vicinity  on  the 
street  did  not.  Occasionally  she  met  women  in 
the  halls,  or  going  in  and  out  of  the  big  main 
door.  At  first  she  looked  at  them  with  a 
half-formed  smile  on  her  face,  waiting  for  the 
227 


The  Tangled  Threads 

confidently  expected  greeting;  later,  she  eyed 
them  with  a  distinctly  grieved  expression — the 
greeting  had  never  been  given ;  but  at  last,  her 
hunger  to  talk  with  some  one  not  of  her  own 
family  led  her  to  take  the  initiative  herself. 
Meeting  a  tall,  slender  woman,  whom  she  had 
already  seen  three  times,  she  spoke. 

"How  —  how  d'ye  do?"  she  began  timidly. 

The  tall  woman  started,  threw  a  hurried 
glance  around  her,  then  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  salutation  was  meant  for  herself. 

"Good-morning,"  she  returned,  then  hurried 
along  through  the  hall. 

Sarah  stood  looking  after  her  with  dazed  eyes. 

"Why,  how  funny!"  she  murmured.  "She 
did  n't  even  stop  a  minute.  Maybe  she 's  sort  of 
bashful,  now.  I  should  n't  wonder  a  mite  if  she 


was." 


Three  days  later  the  two  ladies  again  met  at 
the  outer  door. 

"Oh,  how  d'ye  do?  Nice  day,  ain't  it?"  be- 
gan Sarah,  hurriedly.  "You  —  you  live  here, 
don't  you?" 

"Why  —  yes,"  said  the  woman,  smiling  a 
little. 

228 


The  Daltons  and  the  Legacy 

"  I  do,  too  —  on  the  top  floor.  You  're  not  so 
high  up,  are  you?" 

The  woman  shook  her  head. 

"Not  quite,"  she  said. 

"I  —  I  'm  all  settled,  now,"  announced  Sarah, 
stumbling  over  the  words  a  little. 

"Is  that  so?"  returned  the  woman  politely, 
but  without  enthusiasm. 

Sarah  nodded. 

"Yes,  all  ready  for  callers.  I  —  I  hope  you'll 
come  soon,"  she  finished  with  sudden  courage. 

"Thank  you;  you  are  very  kind,"  murmured 
the  woman,  as  she  smiled  and  turned  away. 

The  tall  woman  did  not  call,  and  Sarah  never 
asked  her  again.  A  few  words  from  Cousin 
John's  wife  at  about  this  time  opened  Sarah's 
eyes,  and  taught  her  not  to  expect  to  become 
acquainted  with  her  neighbors.  At  first  Sarah 
was  more  than  dismayed;  but  she  quickly 
brought  to  bear  the  courage  with  which  she 
fought  all  the  strange  things  in  this  new  life. 

"Of  course  they  can't  call  on  every  one, 
Cousin  Mary,"  she  said  airily  to  John's  wife; 
"and  like  enough  they  're  not  the  kind  of  folks 
I  would  care  to  know,  anyhow." 
229 


The  Tangled  Threads 

Sarah  was  not  the  only  member  of  the  family 
who  had  found  trials  by  the  way.  Ethel  and 
Fred  had  entered  school,  and  at  first  they  came 
home  each  afternoon  with  woeful  faces.  New 
methods  of  study,  recitation,  discipline,  and 
even  of  recreation  puzzled  and  frightened  them. 
They  regularly  begged  each  morning  not  to 
go  back;  but  as  regularly  their  mother's  diplo- 
matic bantering  and  systematic  appeals  to  their 
pride  conquered,  and  they  started  off  at  half- 
past  eight,  heads  high,  and  chins  bravely  up- 
raised. 

To  Caleb,  the  city  was  a  thing  of  noise,  hurry, 
and  more  people  than  he  had  thought  existed. 
Early  and  late  he  worked  in  the  store.  To  the 
"  early  "  part  he  did  not  object  —  it  even  seemed 
late  to  his  farm-bred  ideas  of  early  rising;  but 
to  the  evenings  —  Caleb  never  understood  the 
rush  and  confusion  that  entered  the  big  market 
and  grocery  with  the  lighting  of  the  flaring  gas 
jets.  To  him  it  was  a  time  for  quiet  meditation 
and  sleep  —  not  for  haggling  over  the  price  of 
sugar  and  beans. 

"I  don't  like  it,"  he  would  say  sometimes  to 
his  wife;  "I  don't  like  it,  Sarah.  This  doling  out 
230 


The  Daltons  and  the  Legacy 

a  peck  of  potatoes  and  two  quarts  of  apples  — 
why,  Sarah,  just  think  of  the  bushels  and  bar- 
rels I  Ve  grown  myself!   It 's  so  small,  Sarah, 
so  small!" 

"Of  course  it  is  now,"  comforted  Sarah,  "but 
only  think  what  't  will  be  later  on  —  only 
think." 

December,  January,  February,  and  March 
passed;  and  the  first  of  April  brought  a  letter 
from  the  lessee  of  the  farm  asking  if  he  was  to 
have  the  place  through  the  summer. 

"Of  course  he  can  have  it,"  declared  Sarah. 
"Just  as  if  we  wanted  it  again!" 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  murmured  Caleb.  "I — 
I  '11  write  later  on.  He  said  if  he  heard  by  the 
middle  of  the  month,  't  would  do." 

It  was  an  early,  and  a  wonderfully  beautiful 
spring  that  year.  Warm,  moist  winds  came 
up  from  the  south  and  stirred  the  twigs  and 
branches  into  life.  The  grass  grew  green  on 
sunny  slopes,  and  the  tulips  and  crocuses  turned 
the  dull  brown  beds  into  riotous  color  and 
bloom.  Caleb  went  out  of  his  way  each  day  that 
he  might  pass  a  tiny  little  park,  and  he  always 
stopped  there  a  motionless  two  minutes  —  he 
231 


The  Tangled  Threads 

would  have  told  you  that  he  was  listening  to 
the  green  things  growing.  Sarah  grew  restless 
indoors.  She  even  crawled  out  on  to  the  fire 
escape  and  sat  there  one  day;  but  she  never 
tried  that  but  once. 

Downstairs,  on  each  side  of  the  big  front 
door  was  a  square-yard  patch  of  puny,  strag- 
gling grass ;  and  it  was  these  two  bits  of  possibili- 
ties that  put  a  happy  thought  into  Sarah's  head. 
For  three  days  she  said  nothing,  but  she  fell  into 
the  way  of  going  often  in  and  out  of  that  door, 
and  always  her  eyes  were  hungrily  fixed  on  one 
or  the  other  of  those  squares.  On  the  fourth 
day  she  bought  a  trowel  and  some  flower  seeds 
and  set  resolutely  to  work.  She  had  dug  the 
trowel  into  the  earth  four  times,  and  was  de- 
lightedly sniffing  the  odor  from  the  moist  earth 
when  the  janitor  appeared. 

"Did  ye  lose  something,  ma'am?"  he  asked 
suspiciously. 

"Lose  something ? "  laughed  the  woman.  "  Of 
course  not!  I've  found  something,  William. 
I  Ve  found  a  flower  bed.  I  'm  going  to  have  the 
prettiest  one  ever  was." 

"Oh,  come  now,"  began  the  man,  plainly 


The  Daltons  and  the  Legacy 

disturbed,  "that  ain't  going  to  do,  you  know. 
I'll  have  to—  " 

"Oh,  I'll  tend  it,"  she  interrupted  eagerly. 
"You  won't  even  have  to  touch  it." 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

"  T  won't  do,  ma  'am,  —  't  won't,  really,  now. 
I'm  sorry,  but  the  boss  won't  stand  it." 

"Won't  stand  it!  —  not  even  for  flowers!" 
she  gasped. 

"No,  ma'am"  —  the  janitor's  tone  was  firm 
but  regretful.  A  queer  feeling  of  sympathy 
came  over  him  for  this  gentle  little  woman  on 
the  top  floor  whom  he  had  always  liked.  "There 
hain't  none  of  the  tenants  no  business  with 
them  yards;  he  said  so." 

"Oh!"  said  Mrs.  Dalton,  "I  —  I'll  go  then." 
And  she  picked  up  the  trowel  and  rose  to  her  feet. 

She  passed  the  janitor  without  a  word,  her 
head  held  high,  and  her  eyes  looking  straight 
before  her;  but  once  in  the  seclusion  of  the  halls, 
her  head  drooped,  and  her  eyes  rained  tears 
that  rolled  down  her  cheeks  unceasingly  all  the 
way  to  the  top  floor. 

It  was  that  night  that  Caleb  brought  out  the 
paper  and  pen  to  write  the  letter  which  would 
233 


The  Tangled  Threads 

lease  the  farm  for  another  six  months.  Twice 
he  dipped  his  pen  in  the  ink,  and  paused  with 
no  word  written.  Finally  he  spoke. 

"I  —  I'm  going  to  give  him  some  hints, 
Sarah.  He  won't  know  how  to  run  some  of  the 
things,  I  'm  sure.  If  he  should  plant  the  meadow 
lot  to  potatoes,  now,  it  — " 

"And,  Caleb,"  cut  in  Sarah,  "be  sure  and 
send  word  to  his  wife  about  the  roses;  if  she 
don't  spray  'em  real  early,  the  bugs  and  worms 
will  get  an  awful  start.  Caleb,  don't  you  remem- 
ber how  lovely  that  crimson  rambler  was  last 
year?" 

Caleb  nodded;  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  wall- 
paper. 

"I  —  I  wonder  if  this  warm  weather  has 
made  the  leaves  start  out  on  it,"  resumed  Sarah. 
"  I  hope  not  —  you  know  we  always  have  frosts 
up  there." 

"Hm-m,"  murmured  Caleb. 

There  was  a  long  silence;  then  Sarah  drew  a 
deep  breath. 

"Caleb,  do  you  s'pose  it  '11  get  up  to  the  front- 
chamber  window  this  year  —  that  rosebush,  I 
mean  ? " 

234 


The  Daltons  and  the  Legacy 

"I  don't  know,  Sarah."  Caleb's  eyes  were 
still  on  the  wall-paper. 

There  was  another  long  silence,  broken  this 
time  by  the  children's  entrance. 

"Mother,"  began  Fred  discontentedly,  "don't 
they  ever  go  fishing  down  here,  or  swimming, 
or  anything?" 

Sarah  sprang  to  her  feet  with  a  nervous  little 
laugh. 

"Caleb,  we  —  we  might  go  up  home  just  for 
—  for  a  visit,"  she  said. 

"Hurrah!  —  let's!"  crowed  Fred;  and  Ethel 
clapped  her  hands. 

"I'll  do  it,"  cried  Caleb  suddenly,  bringing 
his  fist  down  hard  on  his  knee.  "I'll  write  that 
we  '11  go  up  next  week  for  three  days.  There 's 
lots  of  room,  and  they  can  tuck  us  away  some- 
where for  just  that  little  time.  We  can  show 
'em  things  better  than  we  can  tell  'em,  and  I 
can  close  the  deal  when  I  get  there." 

It  was  a  jubilant  four  that  left  the  North 
Station  a  few  days  later,  and  it  was  a  still  more 
jubilant  four  that  arrived  in  the  village  at  the 
foot  of  the  green  hills.  The  Dalton's  intended 
visit  had  been  heralded  far  and  near,  and  the 
235 


The  Tangled  Threads 

progress  from  the  train  to  the  farmhouse  was 
a  succession  of  hand-shakes  and  cordial  greet- 
ings. 

"Oh,  don't  it  look  splendid  and  roomy!" 
cried  Sarah,  as  they  reached  the  turn  where 
they  could  see  the  farmhouse.  "And  don't  the 
air  smell  good!" 

"Hm-m,"  murmured  Caleb,  and  turned  his 
face  away  with  set  lips. 

How  crowded  to  overflowing  those  three 
days  were!  Caleb  valiantly  tried  to  give  his 
intended  suggestions,  but  the  most  of  his  time 
was  spent  in  joyous  tramps  from  one  end  of  the 
farm  to  the  other,  that  no  favorite  field  nor  pet 
pasture  should  escape  his  adoring  eyes.  Sarah, 
when  not  gloating  over  every  tender  shoot  and 
starting  bud  in  her  flower  garden,  was  being 
feted  and  fed  by  the  entire  neighborhood. 

"Oh,  how  good  it  is  to  just  talk!"  murmured 
Sarah,  as  she  went  to  sleep  that  first  night. 

As  for  Fred  and  Ethel,  they  were  scarcely 
seen  at  the  farmhouse. 

Just  at  dusk  on  the  third  day  Caleb  found 
his  wife  in  the  old  summer-house.  Wrapped  in 
shawls,  she  was  fastening  vines  to  the  trellis. 
236 


I  'VE  GOT  MY  DOUBTS  OF  WEST1 


The  Daltons  and  the  Legacy 

"Well,  Sarah,  I  —  I  s'pose  I'd  better  settle 
up  with  West,  now.  I  hain't  yet,  you  know." 

Sarah  nodded,  without  speaking. 

"  I  hain't  seemed  to  amount  to  much  about 
telling  him  things,"  continued  Caleb.  "Some- 
how, I  did  n't  get  time.  He 's  careless,  too;  I 'm 
afraid  he  ain't  going  to  do  well." 

"She  is,  too,"  moaned  Sarah.  "She  don't 
know  a  thing  about  roses.  Caleb,  do  you  think 
that  rosebush  will  get  up  to  that  window?" 

"I  don't  know,"  returned  Caleb  absently. 
Then,  with  a  choke  in  his  voice,  he  said :  "Things 
look  first-rate,  now,  but  —  I've  got  my  doubts 
of  West.  I  —  I  wish  I  could  handle  them  my- 
self." 

Sarah  threw  a  quick  glance  at  his  averted 
face. 

"Well  —  why — don't  you?"  she  almost 
whispered. 

"Sarah!"  exclaimed  Caleb. 

"Oh,  here  you  are,"  cried  Fred  from  the  door- 
way. "  Say,  is  it  to-morrow  we  go  ?  —  just  to- 
morrow? Why,  we  have  n't  done  half  that  we 
wanted  to!"  Behind  him  stood  Ethel,  her  eyes 
wistful,  her  mouth  drooping  at  the  corners. 
237 


The  Tangled  Threads 

Sarah  drew  a  quick  breath. 

"Ask  —  ask  your  father,"  she  faltered. 

"  Sarah,  would  you  ? — would  you  come  back  ? 
Do  you  mean  it?"  cried  Caleb,  with  a  swift  joy 
in  his  eyes. 

Sarah  burst  into  tears,  and  threw  herself  into 
her  husband's  arms.  "  Oh,  Caleb,  I  —  just 
would !  I  —  I  Ve  wanted  to  ever  so  long,  but  — 
I  just  would  n't  own  up." 

"There,  there, "  soothed  the  man,  with  loving 
pats,  his  face  alight,  "we'll  come  back,  so  we 
will;  we'll  come  back  right  away." 

Ethel  and  Fred  ran  shouting  from  the 
summer-house,  and  Sarah  raised  a  tear-stained 
face. 

"Well,  anyhow,"  she  laughed  softly,  "now 
we  can  see  just  how  high  that  rosebush  does 
get!" 


The  Letter 

MONDAY  noon  the  postman  gave  the  let- 
ter to  twelve-year-old  Emily,  and  Emily 
in  turn  handed  it  to  her  young  brother.  Between 
the  gate  and  the  door,  however,  Teddy  encoun- 
tered Rover,  and  Rover  wanted  to  play.  It 
ended  in  the  letter  disappearing  around  the  cor- 
ner of  the  house,  being  fast  held  in  the  jaws 
of  a  small  black-and-tan  dog. 

Five  minutes  later  the  assembled  family  in 
the  dining-room  heard  of  the  loss  and  demanded 
an  explanation. 

"'T  wasn't  t-ten  minutes  ago,  mother," 
stammered  Emily  defensively.  "The  postman 
handed  it  to  me  and  I  gave  it  to  Teddy  to  bring 
in." 

"But  whose  letter  was  it?"  demanded  sev- 
eral voices. 

Emily  shook  her  head. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  faltered. 

"Don't  know!  Why,  daughter,  how  could 
you  be  so  careless?"  cried  Mrs.  Clayton.  "It 
239 


The  Tangled  Threads 

is  probably  that  note  from  the  Bixbys  —  they 
were  to  write  if  they  could  not  come.  But  I 
should  like  to  know  what  they  said." 

"  But  it  might  have  been  to  me,"  cut  in  Ethel. 
(Ethel  was  pretty,  eighteen,  and  admired.) 

There  was  a  sudden  exclamation  across  the 
table  as  James,  the  first-born,  pushed  back  his 
chair. 

"Confound  it,  Emily,  you've  got  us  in  a 
pretty  mess !  It  so  happened  I  was  looking  for 
a  letter  myself,"  he  snapped,  as  he  jerked  him- 
self to  his  feet.  "See  here,  Teddy,  where  did 
that  rascally  little  dog  go  to?  Come,  let's  go 
find  Rover,"  he  finished,  stooping  and  lifting 
the  small  boy  to  his  shoulder.  The  next  mo- 
ment the  dining-room  door  had  banged  behind 
them. 

"Dear,  dear!"  laughed  Mrs.  Clayton,  a  little 
hysterically,  turning  to  her  husband.  "You 
don't  happen  to  be  expecting  a  letter,  do  you, 
Charles?" 

"I  do  happen  to  be  —  and  a  very  important 
one,  too,"  returned  the  man;  and  Mrs.  Clay- 
ton, after  a  nervous  glance  at  his  frowning  face, 
subsided  into  her  chair  with  a  murmured  word 

240 


The  Letter 

of  regret.  When  luncheon  was  over  she  slipped 
from  the  room  and  joined  in  the  hunt  for  Rover. 

They  scoured  the  yard,  the  street,  the  house, 
and  the  woodshed,  finding  the  culprit  at  last  in 
the  barn  asleep  under  the  big  automobile.  Of 
the  letter,  however,  there  was  not  a  trace. 

"Dear,  dear,  if  dogs  only  could  talk!" 
moaned  Mrs.  Clayton  that  night  as,  restless 
and  full  of  fancies,  she  lay  on  her  bed.  "If 
only  I  knew  where  and  what  that  letter  was. 
But  then,  of  course,  it 's  from  the  Bixbys ;  I  'm 
going  to  think  so,  anyway,"  she  comforted  her- 
self, and  resolutely  closed  her  eyes. 

"If  that  should  be  Dennison's  letter,"  mused 
Mr.  Clayton  as  he  locked  up  the  house;  "if 
that  should  be  —  confound  it,  and  I  know  it  is ! 
I  'd  swear  it!  It  serves  me  right,  too,  I  suppose, 
for  telling  him  to  write  me  at  the  house  instead 
of  at  the  office.  Confound  that  little  beast  of  a 
dog!" 

In  the  south  chamber  Ethel,  sending  long, 
even  strokes  over  the  brown  satin  of  her  hair, 
eyed  her  image  in  the  glass  with  a  plaintive  pout. 

"Now,  if  that  letter  should  be  an  invitation 
from  Fred!"  she  said  aloud.  "And  when  I  'd  so 
241 


The  Tangled  Threads 

much  rather  go  on  that  ride  with  him!  Oh,  dear! 
Where  can  Rover  have  put  it?" 

Across  the  hall  James  Clayton  paced  the  room 
from  end  to  end. 

"Great  Scott!  What  if  it  were  May's  letter, 
after  all?"  he  groaned.  "What  a  fool  I  was  to 
leave  it  that  if  I  did  n't  hear  by  Thursday  night 
I  'd  understand  't  was  '  no ' !  And  now  she  may 
have  written  and  be  expecting  me  to-morrow, 
Wednesday,  —  to-night,  even,  and  I  not  know 
it  —  tied  hand  and  foot!  Oh,  hang  that  dog!" 

Tuesday  morning  the  family  awoke  and  met 
at  the  breakfast  table.  The  air  was  electric  with 
unrest,  and  the  food  almost  untouched.  It  was 
Mrs.  Clayton  who  broke  the  long  silence  that 
followed  the  morning's  greetings. 

"I  —  I  don't  think  I '11  do  much  to  get  ready 
for  the  Bixbys,"  she  began;  "I  'm  so  sure  that 
letter  was  from  them." 

"You  mean  that,  Julia?"  demanded  her  hus- 
band, brightening.  "Are  you  really  positive ? " 

"Yes,  really  positive.  They  said  all  the  time 
that  they  did  n't  think  they  could  come,  and 
that  without  doubt  I  should  get  a  letter  say- 


ing so." 


242 


The  Letter 

"Then  of  course  'twas  it,"  asserted  Ethel, 
her  face  suddenly  clearing. 

"Of  course, "echoed  her  brother  with  a  promp- 
titude that  hinted  at  more  than  a  willingness  to 
be  convinced  that  the  letter  was  the  Bixbys'  and 
none  other. 

It  was  about  ten  minutes  past  five  that  after- 
noon when  the  four  Bixbys  came. 

"There,  we  did  get  here!"  they  chorused 
gleefully. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  see,  I  see,"  murmured  Mrs.  Clay- 
ton, and  signaled  to  Ethel  to  hurry  into  the 
kitchen  and  give  the  alarm  to  the  cook.  "Then 
you  —  you  did  n't  write?" 

"Write?  Why,  no,  of  course  not!  We  were  n't 
to,  you  know,  if  we  could  come." 

"Yes  —  er  —  I  mean  no,"  stammered  Mrs. 
Clayton,  trying  to  calculate  just  how  long  it 
would  take  the  maid  to  put  three  rooms  in  order. 

At  half-past  six  the  family,  with  their  guests, 
sat  down  to  a  dinner  that  showed  unmistakable 
signs  of  having  been  started  as  a  simple  one  for 
six,  and  finished  as  a  would-be  elaborate  one 
for  ten.  To  the  faces  of  Mr.  Clayton,  Ethel,  and 
James  the  cloud  of  the  morning  had  returned. 
243 


The  Tangled  Threads 

Mrs.  Clayton,  confident  that  the  missing  letter 
contained  nothing  worse  for  her  than  its  ab- 
sence had  already  brought  her,  looked  compara- 
tively serene. 

After  dinner,  as  by  common  consent,  Mr. 
Clayton  and  his  elder  son  and  daughter  met  in 
a  secluded  corner  of  the  library. 

"Hang  it  all,  dad,  now  whose  letter  do  you 
suppose  that  was  ? "  began  James  aggressively. 

"  It 's  mine,"  groaned  the  father,  with  a  shake 
of  his  head.  "  I  know  it 's  mine." 

"But  it  might  n't  be,"  demurred  Ethel,  with 
a  hesitation  that  showed  a  fear  lest  her  sugges- 
tion meet  with  prompt  acceptance. 

"I  tell  you  I  know  it's  mine,"  retorted  Mr. 
Clayton,  and  Ethel  sighed  her  relief.  "I  did 
hope  't  was  your  mother's,"  he  continued;  "but 
I  might  have  known  better.  It 's  mine,  and  — 
and  it  means  dollars  to  me — hundreds  of  them." 

"Why,  father!"  The  two  voices  were  one  in 
shocked  surprise. 

"Well,  it  does.  Dennis  on  was  going  to  drop 
me  a  line  here  if  certain  things  happened.  And 
if  they  have  happened,  and  I  don't  sell  my 
P.  &  Z.  before  to-morrow  noon,  it  '11  mean  — 

244 


The  Letter 

well,  there  '11  be  something  to  pay.  On  the  other 
hand,  if  those  certain  things  have  n't  happened, 
and  I  do  sell  —  it  '11  be  worse." 

"Well,  well,"  laughed  James  in  a  surprisingly 
buoyant  tone,  considering  the  gloom  on  his 
father's  face.  "I  guess  the  letter  was  yours  all 
right.  I  should  take  it  so,  anyhow,  and  go 
ahead  and  sell." 

"Yes,  so  should  I,"  tossed  Ethel  over  her 
shoulder  as  she  tripped  happily  away. 

"After  all,"  mused  James,  slowly  crossing 
the  hall,  "  it  could  n't  have  been  my  letter.  May 
would  n't  have  written  so  soon ;  she  'd  have 
waited  until  nearer  Thursday.  She  would  n't 
let  me  have  the  *  yes '  quite  so  quickly.  Not  she! 
—  the  little  tease  of  a  sweetheart!" 

On  Wednesday  morning,  at  half-past  eight, 
the  maid  brought  in  the  mail  and  laid  it  at  her 
master's  plate.  There  were  a  paper  and  two 
letters. 

"Hm-m,"  began  Mr.  Clayton,  "one  for  you, 
Julia,  my  dear,  and  —  by  Jove,  it 's  Dennison's 
letter!"  he  finished  joyfully,  thrusting  an  eager 
thumb  under  the  flap  of  the  other  envelope. 

Twenty  minutes  later,  with  head  erect  and 

245 


The  Tangled  Threads 

shoulders  squared,  the  senior  member  of  the 
firm  of  Clayton  &  Company  left  his  home  and 
hurried  down  the  street.  Behind  him,  on  the 
veranda  steps,  were  a  young  man  and  a  young 
girl  looking  into  each  other's  faces  in  blank 
dismay. 

"You  —  you  said  you  were  expecting  a  letter, 
did  n't  you?"  began  Ethel  hopefully. 

"Well,  so  were  you,  were  n't  you  ? "  The  tone 
showed  quick  irritation. 

"  Why,  yes,  but  —  " 

"Well,  don't  you  think  it  is  yours?" 

"Why,  I  —  I  don't  know.  It  might  be,  of 
course;  but  — 

"You  said  you  thought  it  was  yours,  the  very 
first  thing." 

"Yes,  I  know;  but  —  well,  perhaps  it  is." 

"Of  course  it  is,"  asserted  James,  as  he  ran 
down  the  steps.  And  Ethel,  looking  after  him, 
frowned  in  vague  wonder. 

Thursday  morning's  mail  brought  four  let- 
ters, and  Ethel  blushed  prettily  as  she  tucked 
them  all  in  her  belt. 

"But  they  are  n't  all  yours,"  protested  her 
brother  James. 

246 


The  Letter 

"But  they  are!"  she  laughed. 

"All?" 

"All." 

"But  7  was  expecting  a  letter." 

"Oh-ho!  —  so  you  were,  were  you?"  teased 
the  girl  merrily.  Ethel  could  afford  to  be  merry; 
she  had  recognized  a  certain  bold  handwriting 
on  one  of  the  envelopes.  "I  really  don't  see, 
then,  but  you  '11  have  to  go  to  Rover.  Perhaps 
he  can  tell  you  where  it  is." 
,  "Confound  that  dog!"  growled  James,  turn- 
ing on  his  heel. 

"I'm  going  to  accept  Fred's  invitation," 
soliloquized  Ethel  happily,  as  she  hurried  into 
her  own  room.  "I  shall  read  his  first,  so,  of 
course,  that  will  be  the  first  one  that  I  get!" 

The  noon  delivery  brought  no  letters  for  any 
one.  James  Clayton  fidgeted  about  the  house 
all  the  afternoon  instead  of  going  down  to  the 
golf  club  to  see  the  open  handicap  —  the  annual 
club  event.  He  felt  that,  in  the  present  state  of 
affairs,  he  could  take  no  chances  of  seeing  a  cer- 
tain young  woman  who  was  just  then  very 
much  in  his  thoughts.  If  she  had  written,  and 
he  should  meet  her  as  though  she  had  not!  — 
247 


The  Tangled  Threads 

his  blood  chilled  at  the  thought;  and  if  she  had 
not  written,  and  he  should  meet  her  as  though 
she  had!  —  To  James  Clayton,  at  the  moment, 
the  thought  of  her  precious  letter  lost  forever 
to  his  longing  eyes  was  only  a  shade  worse  than 
that  there  should  have  been  no  letter  at  all. 

Five  o'clock  came,  bringing  the  last  mail  — 
and  still  no  letter.  In  the  Clayton  residence 
that  night  dinner  was  served  at  a  table  which 
showed  a  vacant  place;  James  Clayton  was  re- 
ported to  be  indisposed.  Yet,  two  hours  later, 
after  a  sharp  peal  of  the  doorbell  and  a  hasty 
knocking  at  his  chamber  door  by  the  maid, 
James  Clayton  left  the  house;  and  one  who  met 
him  on  the  steps  said  that  his  face  was  certainly 
not  that  of  a  sick  man. 

It  was  after  breakfast  the  next  morning,  be- 
fore the  family  had  dispersed,  that  Ethel  rushed 
headlong  into  the  dining-room. 

"Oh,  James,  James!"  she  cried  breathlessly. 
"It  was  your  letter  that  Rover  had,  and  here 
'tis!" 

"But  it  was  n't,"  retorted  the  young  man 
airily.  "I  got  mine  last  night — special  de- 
livery." 

248 


The  Letter 

"But  it  is  yours.  Teddy  found  it  in  a  hole 
under  the  barn.  See!"  crowed  Ethel;  and  she 
thrust  into  his  hand  a  tattered,  chewed,  bedrag- 
gled envelope  whose  seal  was  yet  unbroken. 

"Well,  by  George —  't  is  for  me,"  muttered 
the  young  man,  as  he  descried  his  own  name 
among  the  marks  left  by  dirt-stained  paws  and 
sharp  little  teeth.  "Humph!"  he  ejaculated  a 
moment  later,  eyeing  the  torn  and  crumpled 
sheet  of  paper  which  the  envelope  had  con- 
tained. 
v,  "Well?"  prompted  several  voices. 

"It's  an  advertising  letter  from  the  Clover 
Farm  kennels,"  he  announced,  with  a  slight 
twitching  of  his  lips.  "Do  you  think  we  —  er 
—  need  another  —  dog?" 


The  Indivisible  Five 

AT  the  ages  of  fifty-four  and  fifty,  respec- 
tively, Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wentworth  found 
themselves  possessed  of  a  roomy,  old-fashioned 
farmhouse  near  a  thriving  city,  together  with 
large  holdings  of  lands,  mortgages,  and  bank 
stock.  At  the  same  time  they  awoke  to  an  un- 
pleasant realization  that  many  of  their  fellow 
creatures  were  not  so  fortunate. 

"  James,"  began  Mrs.  Wentworth,  with  some 
hesitation,  one  June  day,  "I've  been  thinking 
—  with  all  our  rambling  rooms  and  great  big 
yards,  and  we  with  never  a  chick  nor  a  child  to 
enjoy  them  —  I  Ve  been  thinking  —  that  is,  I 
went  by  the  orphan  asylum  in  town  yester- 
day and  saw  the  poor  little  mites  playing  in 
that  miserable  brick  oven  they  call  a  yard, 
and — well,  don't  you  think  we  ought  to  have 
one  —  or  maybe  two  —  of  them  down  here  for 
a  week  or  two,  just  to  show  them  what  summer 
really  is?" 

250 


The  Indivisible  Five 

The  man's  face  beamed. 

"My  dear,  it's  the  very  thing!  We'll  take 
two  —  they'll  be  company  for  each  other; 
only  "  —  he  looked  doubtfully  at  the  stout  little 
woman  opposite  —  "the  worst  of  it  will  come 
on  you,  Mary.  Of  course  Hannah  can  manage 
the  work  part,  I  suppose,  but  the  noise  —  well, 
we  '11  ask  for  quiet  ones/'  he  finished,  with  an 
air  that  indicated  an  entirely  satisfactory  solu- 
tion of  the  problem. 

Life  at  "Meadowbrook  "  was  a  thing  of  peace- 
ful mornings  and  long,  drowsy  afternoons;  a 
thing  of  spotless  order  and  methodical  routine. 
In  a  long,  childless  marriage  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Wentworth's  days  had  come  to  be  ordered  with 
a  precision  that  admitted  of  no  frivolous  devia- 
tions :  and  noise  and  confusion  in  the  household 
machinery  were  the  unforgivable  oifenses.  It 
was  into  this  placid  existence  that  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Wentworth  proposed  to  introduce  two  children 
from  the  orphan  asylum. 

Before  the  week  was  out  a  note  was  sent  to 
the  matron  of  the  institution,  and  the  prospec- 
tive host  and  hostess  were  making  their  plans 
with  unwonted  excitement. 
251 


The  Tangled  Threads 

"We  '11  rise  at  six  and  breakfast  at  seven," 
began  Mrs.  Wentworth. 

"And  they  must  be  in  bed  by  eight  o'clock," 
supplemented  her  husband. 

"  I  did  n't  say  whether  to  send  boys  or  girls, 
and  I  forgot  to  say  anything  about  their  being 
quiet;  but  if  they  're  boys,  you  can  teach  them 
gardening,  James,  and  if  they  're  girls,  they  can 
sew  with  me  a  good  deal." 

"Hm-m — yes;  I  really  don't  know  what  we 
shall  do  to  entertain  them.  Perhaps  they  might 
like  to  read,"  suggested  Mr.  Wentworth,  look- 
ing with  some  doubt  at  his  big  bookcases  filled 
with  heavy,  calf-bound  volumes. 

"Of  course;  and  they  can  walk  in  the  garden 
and  sit  on  the  piazza,"  murmured  Mrs.  Went- 
worth happily. 

In  the  orphan  asylum  that  same  evening 
there  was  even  greater  excitement.  Mrs.  Went- 
worth's  handwriting  was  not  of  the  clearest, 
and  her  request  for  "two"  children  had  been 
read  as  "ten";  and  since  the  asylum  —  which 
was  only  a  small  branch  of  a  much  larger  insti- 
tution—  had  recently  been  depleted  until  it 
contained  but  five  children,  the  matron  was 

252 


The  Indivisible  Five 

sorely  perplexed  to  know  just  how  to  fill  so 
generous  an  order.  It  ended  in  her  writing  an 
apologetic  note  to  Mrs.  Wentworth  and  dis- 
patching it  the  next  morning  by  the  hand  of  the 
eldest  girl,  Tilly,  who  was  placed  at  the  head  of 
four  other  jubilant  children,  brushed,  scrubbed, 
and  admonished  into  a  state  of  immaculate 
primness. 

At  half-past  nine  o'clock  the  driver  of  the  big 
carry-all  set  five  squirming  children  on  to  their 
feet  before  the  frontdoor  at  "Meadowbrook," 
and  rang  the  bell. 

"Here  you  are,"  he  called  gayly,  as  Hannah 
opened  the  door.  "I've  washed  my  hands  of 
'em  —  now  they're  yours!"  And  he  drove 
briskly  out  of  the  yard. 

Hannah  neither  moved  nor  spoke.  She  sim- 
ply stared. 

"Here's  a  note,"  began  Tilly,  advancing 
shyly,  "for  Mis'  Wentworth." 

Mechanically  Hannah  took  the  note  and, 
scarcely  realizing  what  she  was  doing,  threw 
open  the  door  of  the  parlor  —  that  parlor  which 
was  sacred  to  funerals,  weddings,  and  the  min- 
ister's calls. 

253, 


The  Tangled  Threads 

The  children  filed  in  slowly  and  deposited 
themselves  with  some  skill  upon  the  slippery 
haircloth  chairs  and  sofa.  Hannah,  still  dazed, 
went  upstairs  to  her  mistress. 

"From  the  asylum,  ma'am,"  she  said  faintly, 
holding  out  the  note. 

Mrs.  Wentworth's  eyes  shone. 

"Oh,  the  children!  Where  are  they,  Han- 
nah?" 

"In  the  parlor,  ma'am." 

"The  parlor?  Why,  Hannah,  the  parlor  is  no 
place  for  those  two  children ! "  Mrs.  Wentworth 
started  toward  the  door. 

Hannah  coughed  and  uptilted  her  chin.  * 

"They  ain't  two,  ma'am.  There's  as  much  as 
half  a  dozen  of  'em." 

"What!" 

"There  is,  ma'am." 

"Why,  Hannah,  what — "  The  lady  tore 
open  the  note  with  shaking  fingers,  and  read: 

My  dear  Madam:  You  very  generously  asked 
for  ten  children,  but  I  hope  you  will  pardon  me 
for  sending  only  five.  That  is  all  we  have  with  us 
now,  owing  to  several  recent  adoptions  from  our 
ranks  —  you  know  we  are  never  very  large,  being 
only  a  branch  of  the  Hollingsworth  Asylum.  The 

254 


The  Indivisible  Five 

children  were  so  crazy ,/though,  at  the  idea  'of  a 
trip  to  the  country,  that  I  am  sure  each  child  will 
have  fun  enough  —  and  make  noise  enough,  also, 
I  fear  —  for  two,  so  in  the  end  you  may  think 
you've  got  your  ten  children,  after  all.  You  must 
be  fond  of  children  to  be  willing  to  give  so  many 
a  two-weeks'  vacation,  but  you  don't  know  what 
a  lot  of  good  you  are  doing.  If  you  could  have 
seen  the  children  when  I  read  them  your  note,  you 
would  have  been  well  repaid  for  all  your  trouble. 
I  wish  there  were  more  like  you  in  the  world. 
Yours  respectfully, 

AMANDA  HIGGINS. 

"Hannah,"  faltered  Mrs.  Wentworth,  drop- 
ping into  her  chair,  "  they  did  n't  read  my  note 
right.  They  —  they  Ve  actually  sent  us  the 
whole  asylum!" 

"Well,  it  looks  like  it  —  downstairs,"  re- 
turned Hannah  grimly. 

"Sure  enough,  they  are  downstairs,  and  I 
must  go  to  them,"  murmured  Mrs.  Wentworth, 
rising  irresolutely  to  her  feet.  "I  —  I'll  go 
down.  I'll  have  to  send  all  but  two  home,  of 
course,"  she  finished,  as  she  left  the  room. 

Downstairs  she  confronted  five  pairs  of  eyes 
shining  out  at  her  from  the  gloom. 

"Good-morning,  children,"  she  began,  trying 
255 


The  Tangled  Threads 

to  steady  her  voice.  "There  is  —  er  —  I  — 
well — "  She  stopped  helplessly,  and  a  small 
girl  slid  to  the  floor  from  her  perch  on  the  sofa 
and  looked  longingly  toward  the  hall. 

"Please,  ma'am,  there's  a  kitty  out  there; 
"nay  I  get  it?"  she  asked  timidly. 

"Please,  have  you  got  a  dog,  too?"  piped  up 
a  boy's  voice. 

"An'  chickens  an'  little  pigs?  They  said  you 
had!"  interposed  a  brown-eyed  girl  from  the 
corner. 

"An'  there 's  hammocks  an'  swings,  maybe," 
broke  in  Tilly;  "an'  please,  ma'am,  may  n't  we 
go  outdoors  and  begin  right  away?  Two  weeks 
is  an  awful  short  time,  you  know,  for  all  we 
want  to  do,"  she  finished  earnestly. 

Four  pairs  of  feet  came  down  to  the  floor 
with  a  thump  and  eight  small  boots  danced  a 
tattoo  of  impatience  on  the  parlor  carpet  — 
the  small  girl  was  already  out  in  the  hall  and 
on  her  knees  to  the  cat. 

"Why,  yes,  —  that  is  —  you  see,  there  was  a 
mistake;  I  — "  Mrs.  Wentworth  stopped  sud- 
denly, for  as  soon  as  the  "yes"  had  left  her  lips 
the  children  had  fled  like  sheep. 

256 


The  Indivisible  Five 

She  stepped  to  the  front  door  and  looked  out. 

A  boy  was  turning  somersaults  on  the  grass. 
Three  girls  had  started  a  game  of  tag.  Watching 
all  this  with  eager  eyes  was  a  boy  of  eight,  one 
foot  tightly  bound  into  an  iron  brace.  It  was  on 
this  child  that  Mrs.  Wentworth's  eyes  lingered 
the  longest. 

"Poor  little  fellow!  Well,  he  shall  be  one  of 
the  two,"  she  murmured,  as  she  hurried  out  to 
Hannah. 

"When  they  going,  ma'am?"  began  Hannah, 
with  an  assurance  born  of  long  service. 

"I  —  I  haven't  told  them;  I  —  well,  I 
waited  for  Mr.  Wentworth,"  confessed  her  mis- 
tress hastily.  Then,  with  some  dignity:  "They 
can  just  as  well  have  to-day  outdoors,  any- 
way." 

It  was  nearly  noon  when  Mr.  Wentworth 
drove  into  the  yard,  gave  his  horse  into  the  care 
of  Bill,  the  man-of-all-work,  and  hurried  into 
the  house. 

"Mary,  Mary  —  where  are  you?"  he  called 
sharply.  Never  before  had  James  Wentworth 
broken  the  serene  calm  of  his  home  with  a  voice 
like  that. 

257 


The  Tangled  Threads 

"Yes,  dear,  I'm  here  —  in  the  dining-room." 

Mrs.  Wentworth's  cheeks  were  flushed,  her 
hair  was  disordered,  and  her  neck-bow  was  un- 
tied; but  she  was  smiling  happily  as  she  hovered 
over  a  large  table  laden  with  good  things  and  set 
for  six. 

"You  can  sit  down  with  them,  James,"  she 
exclaimed;  "I'm  going  to  help  Hannah  serve 
them." 

"Mary,  what  in  the  world  does  this  mean? 
The  yard  is  overrun  with  screaming  children! 
Have  they  sent  us  the  whole  asylum?"  he  de- 
manded. 

Mrs.  Wentworth  laughed  hysterically. 

"That's  exactly  what  they  have  done,  dear. 
They  took  my  '  two '  for  a '  ten,'  and — and  they 
did  the  best  they  could  to  supply  my  wants!" 

"Well,  but  —  why  don't  you  send  them 
home?  We  can't — " 

"Yes,  yes;  I  know,  dear,"  interrupted  the 
woman  hastily,  the  happy  look  gone  from  her 
eyes.  "  After  dinner  I  am  —  that  is,  you  may 
send  all  but  two  home.  I  thought  I  'd  let  them 
play  awhile." 

"Humph!"  ejaculated  the  man;  "send  them 
258 


The  Indivisible  Five 

home? — I  should  think  so!"  he  muttered,  as 
his  wife  went  to  call  the  children  to  dinner. 

What  a  wonderful  meal  that  was,  and  how 
the  good  things  did  vanish  down  those  five  hun- 
gry throats ! 

The  man  at  the  head  of  the  table  looked  on 
in  dumb  amazement,  and  he  was  still  speech- 
less when,  after  dinner,  five  children  set  upon 
him  and  dragged  him  out  to  see  the  bird's  nest 
behind  the  barn. 

"An*  we  found  the  pigs  an'  the  chickens, 
Mister,  jest  as  they  said  we  would,"  piped  up 
Tommy  eagerly,  as  they  hurried  along. 

"An'  a  teeny  little  baby  cow,  too,"  panted 
the  smaller  girl,  "an'  I  fed  him." 

"Well,  I  guess  you  could  n't  'a'  fed  him  if 
I  had  n't  held  him  with  the  rope,"  crowed 
Bobby. 

"Or  if  I  had  n't  scared  him  with  my  stick!" 
cut  in  Tilly.  "I  guess  you  ain't  the  only  pebble 
on  the  beach,  Bobby  Mack!" 

"Good  Heavens!"  groaned  Mr.  Wentworth, 
under  his  breath.  "And  have  I  got  to  keep  two 
of  these  little  hoodlums  for  a  whole  fortnight? 
Er  —  children,"  he  said  aloud,  after  the  bird's 

259 


The  Tangled  Threads 

nest  had  been  duly  admired;  "er —  suppose  we 
go  and  —  er  —  read." 

Into  the  house  trooped  the  five  chattering 
boys  and  girls  in  the  wake  of  an  anxious,  per- 
plexed man.  Some  minutes  later  the  children 
sat  in  a  stiff  row  along  the  wall,  while  the  man, 
facing  them,  read  aloud  from  a  ponderous  calf- 
bound  volume  on  "The  Fundamental  Causes  of 
the  Great  Rebellion." 

For  some  time  Mr.  Wentworth  read  without 
pausing  to  look  up,  his  sonorous  voice  filling  the 
room,  and  his  mind  wholly  given  to  the  subject 
in  hand;  then  he  raised  his  eyes  —  and  almost 
dropped  the  book  in  his  hand:  Tommy,  the 
cripple,  sat  alone. 

"Why,  where  —  what — "  stammered  Mr. 
Wentworth. 

"They've  gone  out  ter  the  barn,  Mister," 
explained  Tommy  cheerfully,  pointing  to  the 
empty  chairs. 

"Oh!"  murmured  Mr.  Wentworth  faintly, 
as  he  placed  the  book  on  the  shelf.  "I  —  er  — 
I  think  we  won't  read  any  more.' ' 

"Come  on,  then;  let's  go  to  the  barn," 
cried  Tommy.  And  to  the  barn  they  went. 

260 


The  Indivisible  Five 

There  were  no  "  Fundamental  Causes  of  the 
Great  Rebellion"  in  the  barn,  but  there  were 
fundamental  causes  of  lots  of  other  things,  and 
Mr.  Wentworth  found  that  now  his  words  were 
listened  to  with  more  eagerness ;  and  before  he 
knew  it,  he  was  almost  as  excited  as  were  the 
children  themselves. 

They  were  really  a  very  intelligent  lot  of 
youngsters,  he  told  himself,  and  the  prospect  of 
having  two  of  them  for  guests  did  not  look  so 
formidable  after  all. 

From  the  barn  they  went  to  the  garden,  from 
the  garden  to  the  pond,  from  the  pond  back  to 
the  yard ;  then  they  all  sat  down  under  the  apple 
trees  while  Mr.  Wentworth  built  them  a  minia- 
ture boat;  in  days  long  gone  by  James  Went- 
worth had  loved  the  sea,  and  boat-making  had 
been  one  of  his  boyhood  joys. 

At  four  o'clock  Mrs.  Wentworth  called  from 
the  house: 

"James,  will  you  come  here  a  minute, 
please?" 

A  slow  red  stole  over  the  man's  face  as  he  rose 
to  his  feet.  The  red  was  a  deep  crimson  by  the 
time  he  faced  his  wife. 

261 


The  Tangled  Threads 

"How  are  you  going  to  send  them  home, 
dear?"  she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head.  - 

"But  it's  four  o'clock,  and  we  ought  to  be 
thinking  of  it.  Which  two  are  you  going  to 
keep?" 

"I  —  I  don't  know,"  he  acknowledged. 

For  some  unapparent  reason  Mrs.  Went- 
worth's  spirits  rose,  but  she  assumed  an  air  of 
severity. 

"Why,  James!  —  have  n't  you  told  them?" 
she  demanded. 

"Mary,  I  couldn't;  I've  been  trying  to  all 
the  afternoon.  Er  —  you  tell  them  —  do! "  he 
urged  desperately.  "  I  can't  —  playing  with 
them  as  I  have!" 

"Suppose  we  keep  them  all,  then?"  she  haz- 
arded. 

"Mary!" 

"Oh,  I  can  manage  it!  I  Ve  been  talking  with 
Hannah  —  I  saw  how  things  were  going  with 
you"  —  his  features  relaxed  into  a  shame-faced 
smile  —  "and  Hannah  says  her  sister  can  come 
to  help,  and  we  Ve  got  beds  enough  with  the 
cots  in  the  attic." 

262 


The  Indivisible  Five 

He  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"Then  we  won't  have  to  tell  them!"  he 
exclaimed. 

"No,  we  won't  have  to  tell  them,"  she 
laughed,  as  she  turned  back  into  the  house. 

What  a  fortnight  that  was  at  "Meadow- 
brook!"  The  mornings  —  no  longer  peaceful 
—  were  full  of  rollicking  games;  and  the  long, 
drowsy  afternoons  became  very  much  awake 
with  gleeful  shouts.  The  spotless  order  fled  be- 
fore the  bats  and  balls  and  books  and  dolls  that 
Mr.  Wentworth  brought  home  from  the  store; 
and  the  methodical  routine  of  the  household 
was  shattered  to  atoms  by  daily  picnics  and 
frequent  luncheons  of  bread  and  butter. 

No  longer  were  the  days  ordered  with  a  pre- 
cision that  admitted  of  no  frivolous  devia- 
tions, for  who  could  tell  in  the  morning  how 
many  bumped  heads,  cut  fingers,  bruised  noses 
and  wounded  hearts  would  need  sympathetic 
attention  before  night? 

And  so  it  went  on  until  the  evening  before 
the  two  weeks  were  completed;  then,  after  the 
children  were  abed  and  asleep,  the  man  and  his 
wife  talked  it  over. 

263 


The  Tangled  Threads 

"Well,  this  ends  tomorrow,  I  suppose.  You 
must  be  tired,  Mary;  it's  been  a  hard  time  for 
you,  dear,"  he  began. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,  James,"  she  demurred. 
"Hannah  and  Betsey  have  done  all  the  work, 
and  you  Ve  been  with  the  children  so  much  I  Ve 
not  felt  their  care  at  all." 

The  man  stirred  uneasily. 

"Well,  I  —  I  wanted  to  relieve  you  as  much 
as  possible,"  he  exclaimed,  wondering  if  she 
knew  how  many  boats  he  had  built  for  the  boys, 
and  how  many  jackknives  he  had  broken  in  the 
process. 

"Do  you  know?  —  I  think  I  shall  be  actually 
lonely  when  they  are  gone,"  declared  Mrs. 
Wentworth,  without  looking  up. 

The  man  threw  a  sharp  glance  at  his  wife. 

"So  shall  I,"  he  said. 

"James,  I  Ve  been  wondering,  could  n't  we  — 
adopt  one  of  them?"  she  suggested,  trying  to 
make  it  appear  as  if  the  thought  had  but  just 
entered  her  head. 

Again  the  man  gave  his  wife  a  swift  glance. 

"Why  —  we  —  might  —  I  suppose,"  he  re- 
turned, hoping  that  his  hesitation  would  indi- 

264 


The  Indivisible  Five 

cate  that  the  idea  was  quite  new  to  him  —  in- 
stead of  having  been  almost  constantly  in  his 
thoughts  for  a  week. 

"We  might  take  two  —  company  for  each 
other,  you  know ! "  She  looked  at  him  out  of  the 
corner  of  her  eye. 

"Hm-m,"  he  agreed  pleasantly. 

"The  only  trouble  is  the  selecting,  James." 

"Yes,  that  is  a  drawback,"  murmured  the 
man,  with  a  vivid  recollection  of  a  certain  after- 
noon under  the  apple  trees. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you"  — Mrs.  Wentworth 
leaned  forward  in  sudden  animation  —  "to- 
morrow you  pick  out  the  one  you  want  and  ask 
him  —  or  her  —  to  go  into  the  parlor  for  a  few 
minutes  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  I 
will  do  the  same." 

"Well,  maybe,"  he  began  a  little  doubt- 
fully, "but—  " 

"And  if  there  are  two,  and  you  are  n't  real 
sure  which  you  want,  just  ask  both  of  them  to 
go,  and  we  '11  settle  it  together,  later,"  she  fin- 
ished. 

To  this,  with  some  measure  of  content,  her 
husband  agreed. 

265 


The  next  morning  at  ten  minutes  before  nine 
Mrs.  Wentworth  began  her  search.  With  no 
hesitation  she  accosted  the  little  cripple. 

"Tommy,  dear,  I  want  you  to  go  into  the 
parlor  for  a  few  minutes.  Take  your  book  in 
there  and  read,  and  I  '11  come  very  soon  and 
tell  you  what  I  want." 

Tommy  obeyed  at  once  and  Mrs.  Wentworth 
sighed  in  relief.  At  that  moment  Tilly  came 
into  the  garden. 

What  a  dear  little  woman  those  two  weeks  of 
happiness  had  caused  Tilly  to  become!  How 
much  she  loved  Tommy,  and  what  care  she 
took  of  him !  Really,  it  was  a  shame  to  separate 
them  —  they  ought  to  be  brought  up  together 
—  perhaps  Mr.  Wentworth  would  n't  find  any 
child  that  he  wanted;  anyway,  she  believed  she 
should  send  Tilly  in,  at  a  venture. 

A  moment  later  Tilly  was  following  in 
Tommy's  footsteps.  On  the  piazza  steps  sat 
Bobby  —  homely,  unattractive  Bobby,  crying. 

"Why,  my  dear!"  remonstrated  Mrs.  Went- 
worth. 

"Tommy's  gone!  I  can't  find  him,"  sobbed 
the  boy. 

266 


The  Indivisible  Five 

Mrs.  Wentworth's  back  straightened. 

Of  course  Bobby  cried  —  no  one  was  so  good 
to  him  as  Tommy  was  —  no  one  seemed  to  care 
for  him  but  Tommy.  Poor,  homely  Bobby! 
He  had  a  hard  row  to  hoe.  He  — 

But  she  could  n't  take  Bobby!  Of  course 
not  —  she  had  Tommy  and  Tilly  already. 
Still  - 

Mrs.  Wentworth  stooped  and  whispered  a 
magic  word  in  Bobby's  ear,  and  the  boy  sprang 
to  his  feet  and  trotted  through  the  hall  to  the 
parlor  door. 

"I  don't  care,"  muttered  Mrs.  Wentworth 
recklessly.  "  I  could  n't  bear  to  leave  him  alone 
out  here.  I  can  settle  it  later." 

Twice  she  had  evaded  her  husband  during 
the  last  fifteen  minutes;  now,  at  nine  o'clock, 
the  appointed  time,  they  both  reached  the  par- 
lor door.  Neither  one  could  meet  the  other's 
eyes,  and  with  averted  faces  they  entered  the 
room  together;  then  both  gave  a  cry  of  amaze- 
ment. 

In  the  corner,  stiff,  uncomfortable,  and  with 
faces  that  expressed  puzzled  anxiety,  sat  five 
silent  children. 

267 


The  Tangled  Threads 

Mrs.  Wentworth  was  the  first  to  recover  pres- 
ence of  mind. 

"There,  there,  dears,  it 's  all  right,"  she  be- 
gan a  little  hysterically.  "You  can  call  it  a  little 
game  we  were  playing.  You  may  all  run  out- 
doors now." 

As  the  last  white  apron  fluttered  through  the 
door  she  dropped  limply  into  a  chair. 

"James,  what  in  the  world  are  we  going  to 
do?"  she  demanded. 

"Give  it  up!"  said  the  man,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  —  James  Wentworth's  vocabulary  had 
grown  twenty  years  younger  in  the  last  two 
weeks. 

"But  really,  it's  serious!" 

"It  certainly  is." 

"But  what  shall  we  do?"  ' 

The  man  took  his  hands  from  his  pockets  and 
waved  them  in  a  manner  that  would  indicate 
entire  irresponsibility. 

£  We  might  end  it  as  we  did  two  weeks  ago 
and  keep  the  whole  lot  of  them,"  she  proposed 
merrily. 

"Well  —  why  don't  you?"  he  asked  calmly. 

"James!" 

268 


The  Indivisible  Five 

His  face  grew  red  with  a  shame-faced  laugh. 

"  Well  —  there  are  families  with  five  children 
in  them,  and  I  guess  we  could  manage  it,"  he 
asserted  in  self-defense. 

She  sat  up  and  looked  at  him  with  amaze- 
ment. 

"Surely  we  have  money  enough  —  and  I 
don't  know  how  we  could  spend  it  better,"  he 
continued  rapidly;  "and  with  plenty  of  help  for 
you  —  there  's  nothing  to  hinder  turning  our- 
selves into  an  orphan  asylum  if  we  want  to," 
he  added  triumphantly. 

"Oh,  James,  could  we  —  do  you  think?"  she 
cried,  her  eyes  shining  with  a  growing  joy. 
"Tommy,  and  Tilly,  and  all?  Oh,  we  will  — 
we  will !  And  —  and  —  we  '11  never  have  to 
choose  any  more,  will  we,  James?"  she  finished 
fervently. 


The  Elephant's  Board 
and  Keep 

ON  twelve  hundred  dollars  a  year  the  Wheel- 
ers had  contrived  to  live  thus  far  with 
some  comforts  and  a  few  luxuries  —  they  had 
been  married  two  years.  Genial,  fun-loving, 
and  hospitable,  they  had  even  entertained  oc- 
casionally; but  Brainerd  was  a  modest  town, 
and  its  Four  Hundred  was  not  given  to  lavish 
display. 

In  the  bank  Herbert  Wheeler  spent  long  hours 
handling  money  that  was  not  his,  only  to  hurry 
home  and  spend  other  long  hours  over  a  tiny 
lawn  and  a  tinier  garden,  where  every  blade 
of  grass  and  every  lettuce-head  were  marvels  of 
grace  and  beauty,  simply  because  they  were 
his. 

It  was  June  now,  and  the  lawn  and  the  gar- 
den were  very  important;  but  it  was  on  a  June 
morning  that  the  large  blue  envelope  came. 

270 


The  Elephant's  Board  and  Keep 

Herbert  went  home  that  night  and  burst  into 
the  kitchen  like  a  whirlwind. 

"Jessica,  we  Ve  got  one  at  last,"  he  cried. 

"One  what?" 

"An  automobile." 

Jessica  sat  down  helplessly.  In  each  hand 
she  held  an  egg  —  she  had  been  selecting  two 
big  ones  for  an  omelet. 

"Herbert,  are  you  crazy?  What  are  you 
talking  about?"  she  demanded. 

"About  our  automobile,  to  be  sure,"  he  re- 
torted. "  'T  was  Cousin  John's.  I  heard  to-day 
—  he 's  left  it  to  us." 

;<  To  us!  But  we  hardly  knew  him,  and  he 
was  only  a  third  or  fourth  cousin,  anyway, 
wasn't  he?  Why,  we  never  even  thought  of 
going  to  the  funeral!" 

"I  know;  but  he  was  a  queer  old  codger,  and 
he  took  a  great  fancy  to  you  when  he  saw  you. 
Don't  you  remember?  Anyhow,  the  deed  is 
done." 

"And  it's  ours?  —  a  whole  automobile?" 

"That's  what  they  say  —  and  it's  a  three- 
thousand-dollar  car." 

"Oh,  Herbert!"  When  Jessica  was  pleased 
271 


The  Tangled  Threads 

she  clapped  her  hands ;  she  clapped  them  now 
—  or  rather  she  clapped  the  eggs  —  and  in  the 
resulting  disaster  even  the  automobile  was  for 
a  moment  forgetten.  But  for  only  a  moment. 

"And  to  think  how  we  've  wanted  an  automo- 
bile!" she  cried,  when  the  impromptu  omelet  in 
her  lap  had  been  banished  into  oblivion.  "The 
rides  we  '11  have  —  and  we  won't  be  pigs !  We  'II 
take  our  friends!" 

"Indeed  we  will,"  agreed  Herbert. 

"And  our  trips  and  vacations,  and  even  down 
town  —  why,  we  won't  need  any  carfare.  We  'II 
save  money,  Herbert,  lots  of  money!" 

"Er  —  well,  an  auto  costs  something  to  run, 
you  know,"  ventured  Herbert. 

"Gasoline,  'course! — but  what 's  a  little  gas- 
oline? I  fancy  we  can  afford  that  when  we  get 
the  whole  car  for  nothing!" 

"Well,  I  should  say!"  chuckled  the  man. 

"Where  is  it  now?" 

"In  the  garage  on  the  estate,"  returned  Her- 
bert, consulting  his  letter.  "I'm  requested  to 
take  it  away." 

"Requested!  Only  fancy!  As  if  we  were  n't 
dying  to  take  it  away!" 

272 


The  Elephant's  Board  and  Keep 

"Yes,  but  —  how?"  The  man's  face  had 
grown  suddenly  perplexed. 

"Why,  go  and  get  it,  of  course." 

"But  one  can't  walk  in  and  pocket  a  motor- 
car as  one  would  a  package  of  greenbacks." 

"Of  course  not!  But  you  can  get  it  and  run 
it  home.  It 's  only  fifty  miles,  anyhow." 

"I  don't  know  how  to  run  an  automobile. 
Besides,  there 's  licenses  and  things  that  have  to 
be  'tended  to  first,  I  think." 

"Well,  somebody  can  run  it,  can't  there?" 

"Well,  yes,  I  suppose  so.  But  —  where  are 
we  going  to  keep  it?" 

"Herbert  Wheeler,  one  would  think  you  were 
displeased  that  we  Ve  been  given  this  automo- 
bile. As  if  it  mattered  where  we  kept  it,  so  long 
as  we  had  it  to  keep!" 

"Yes,  but —  really,  Jessica,  we  can't  keep  it 
here  —  in  the  kitchen,"  he  cried.  "It 's  smashed 
two  eggs  already,  just  the  mention  of  it,"  he 
finished  whimsically. 

"But  there  are  places  —  garages  and  things, 
Herbert;  you  know  there  are." 

"Yes,  but  they  —  cost  something." 

"I  know  it;  but  if  the  car  is  ours  for  nothing, 
273 


The  Tangled  Threads 

seems  as  if  we  might  be  able  to  afford  its  board 
and  keep!" 

"Well,  by  George!  it  does,  Jessica;  that's  a 
fact,"  cried  the  man,  starting  to  his  feet. 
"There  's  Dearborn's  down  to  the  Square.  I  '11 
go  and  see  them  about  it.  They  '11  know,  too, 
how  to  get  it  here.  I  '11  go  down  right  after  sup- 
per. And,  by  the  way,  how  about  that  omelet? 
Did  our  new  automobile  leave  any  eggs  to  make 
one?" 

"Well,  a  few,"  laughed  Jessica. 

There  was  no  elation  in  Herbert  Wheeler's 
step  when,  two  hours  later,  the  young  bank 
teller  came  home  from  Dearborn's. 

"Well,  I  guess  we  —  we're  up  against  it, 
Jessica,"  he  groaned. 

"What 's  the  matter?  Won't  they  take  it? 
Never  mind;  there  are  others." 

"Oh,  yes,  they  '11  take  it  and  take  care  of  it 
for  fifteen  or  twenty  dollars  a  month,  according 
to  the  amount  of  work  I  have  them  do  on  it." 

"Why,  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing!  Does 
it  cost  that  —  all  that?  But  then,  the  car 
does  n't  cost  anything,"  she  added  soothingly, 
after  a  pause. 

274 


The  Elephant's  Board  and  Keep 

"Oh,  no,  the  car  doesn't  cost  anything  — 
only  eight  or  ten  dollars  to  bring  it  down 
by  train,  or  else  two  dollars  an  hour  for  a  chauf- 
feur to  run  it  down  for  us,"  retorted  her  hus- 
band. 

"Eight  or  ten  dollars!  Two  dollars  an  hour 
to  run  it!"  gasped  Jessica.  "Why,  Herbert, 
what  shall  we  do  ?  There  is  only  ten  dollars  now 
of  the  household  money  to  last  the  rest  of  the 
month ;  and  there 's  this  week's  grocery  bill  and 
a  dollar  and  a  half  for  the  laundry  to  pay ! " 

"That's  exactly  it  —  what  shall  we  do?" 
snapped  Herbert.  This  thing  was  getting  on 
his  nerves. 

"But  we  must  do,"  laughed  Jessica  hysteri- 
cally. "The  idea  of  giving  up  a  three-thousand- 
dollar  automobile  because  one  owes  a  grocery 
bill  and  a  dollar  and  a  half  for  laundry!" 

"Well,  we  can't  eat  the  automobile,  and 
't  won't  wash  our  clothes  for  us." 

"Naturally  not!  Who  wants  it  to?"  Jessi- 
ca's nerves,  also,  were  feeling  the  strain. 

"We  might  — sell  it." 

"Sell  it!  Sell  our  automobile!"  flamed  Jes- 
sica; and  to  hear  her,  one  would  think  the 
275 


The  Tangled  Threads 

proposition  was  to  sell  an  old  family  heirloom, 
beloved  for  years. 

Her  husband  sighed. 

"Isn't  there  something  somewhere  about 
selling  the  pot  to  get  something  to  put  into  it?" 
he  muttered  dismally,  as  he  rose  to  lock  up  the 
house  for  the  night.  "  Well,  I  fancy  that 's  what 
we  '11  have  to  do  —  sell  the  automobile  to  get 
money  enough  to  move  it!" 

Two  days  later  the  automobile  came.  Per- 
haps the  grocer  waited.  Perhaps  the  laundry 
bill  went  unpaid  Perhaps  an  obliging  friend  ad- 
vanced a  loan.  Whatever  it  was,  spic  and  span 
in  Dearborn's  garage  stood  the  three-thousand- 
dollar  automobile,  the  admired  of  every  eye. 

June  had  gone,  and  July  was  weeks  old,  how- 
ever, before  the  preliminaries  of  license  and  les- 
sons were  over,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Herbert 
Wheeler  could  enter  into  the  full  knowledge  of 
what  it  meant  to  be  the  joyous  possessors  of  an 
automobile  which  one  could  run  one's  self. 

"And  now  we'll  take  our  friends,"  cried 
Jessica.  "Who '11  go  first?" 

"Let 's  begin  with  the  A's  —  the  Arnolds. 
They  're  always  doing  things  for  us." 

276 


The  Elephant's  Board  and  Keep 

"Good!  I'll  telephone  Mrs.  Arnold  to-night. 
To-morrow  is  Saturday,  half-holiday.  We  '11 
take  them  down  to  the  lake  and  come  home  by 
moonlight.  Oh,  Herbert,  won't  it  be  lovely?" 

"You  bet  it  will,"  exulted  Herbert,  as  he 
thought  of  the  Arnolds'  admiring  eyes  when 
their  car  should  sweep  up  to  their  door. 

At  three  o'clock  Saturday  afternoon  the 
Wheelers  with  their  two  guests  started  for  the 
lake.  It  was  a  beautiful  day.  The  road  was 
good  and  every  one  was  in  excellent  spirits  — 
that  is,  every  one  but  the  host.  It  had  come  to 
him  suddenly  with  overwhelming  force  that  he 
was  responsible  not  only  for  the  happiness  but 
for  the  lives  of  his  wife  and  their  friends.  What 
if  something  should  go  wrong? 

But  nothing  did  go  wrong.  He  stopped  twice, 
it  is  true,  and  examined  carefully  his  car;  but 
the  only  result  of  his  search  was  a  plentiful  be- 
daubing of  oil  and  gasoline  on  his  hands  and  of 
roadway  dust  on  his  clothing.  He  was  used  to 
this  and  did  not  mind  it,  however  —  until  he 
went  in  to  dinner  at  the  Lakeside  House  beside 
the  fresh  daintiness  of  his  wife  and  their  friends; 
then  he  did  mind  it. 

277 


The  Tangled  Threads 

The  ride  home  was  delightful,  so  the  Arnolds 
said.  The  Arnolds  talked  of  it,  indeed,  to  each 
other,  until  they  fell  asleep  —  but  even  then 
they  did  not  talk  of  it  quite  so  long  as  their  host 
worked  cleaning  up  the  car  after  the  trip. 
Wheeler  kept  the  automobile  now  in  a  neigh- 
bor's barn  and  took  care  of  it  himself;  it  was 
much  cheaper  than  keeping  it  in  Dearborn's 
garage. 

There  were  several  other  friends  in  the  A's 
and  B's  and  two  in  the  C's  who  were  taken  out 
in  the  Wheeler  automobile  before  Herbert  one 
day  groaned: 

"Jessica,  this  alphabet  business  is  killing  me. 
It  does  seem  as  if  Z  never  would  be  reached!" 

"Why,  Herbert ! — and  they  're  all  our  friends, 
and  you  know  how  much  they  think  of  it." 

"I  think  of  it,  too,  when  the  dinner  checks 
and  the  supper  checks  come  in.  Jessica,  we  just 
simply  can't  stand  it!" 

Jessica  frowned  and  sighed. 

"I  know,  dear;  but  when  the  car  did  n't  cost 
anything  —  " 

"Well,  lobster  salads  and  chicken  patties 
cost  something,"  mentioned  the  man  grimly. 

278 


The  Elephant's  Board  and  Keep 

"I  know  it;  but  it  seems  so  —  so  selfish  to  go 
all  by  ourselves  with  those  empty  seats  behind 
us.  And  there  are  so  many  I  have  promised  to 
take.  Herbert,  what  can  we  do?" 

"I  don't  know;  but  I  know  what  we  can't  do. 
We  can't  feed  them  to  the  tune  of  a  dollar  or  two 
a  plate  any  longer." 

There  was  a  long  pause;  then  Jessica  clapped 
her  hands. 

"Herbert,  I  have  it!  We'll  have  basket  pic- 
nics. I  '11  take  a  lunch  from  the  house  every 
time.  And,  after  all,  that'll  be  lots  nicer;  don't 
you  think  so?" 

"Well,  that  might  do,"  acquiesced  the  man 
slowly.  "Anyhow,  there  would  n't  be  any  din- 
ner checks  a-coming." 

August  passed  and  September  came.  The 
Wheelers  were  in  "M"  now;  they  had  been  for 
days,  indeed.  Even  home-prepared  luncheons 
were  beyond  the  Wheelers'  pocketbook  now, 
and  no  friend  had  been  invited  to  ride  for  a 
week  past.  The  spoiling  of  two  tires  and  a  rather 
serious  accident  to  the  machine  had  necessi- 
tated the  Wheelers  spending  every  spare  cent 
for  repairs. 

279 


The  Tangled  Threads 

In  the  eyes  of  most  of  the  town  the  Wheelers 
were  objects  of  envy.  They  had  an  automobile. 
They  could  ride  while  others  must  plod  along 
behind  them  on  foot,  blinded  by  their  dust  and 
sickened  by  their  noisome  odor  of  gasoline. 

As  long  as  the  Wheelers  were  "  decently  hos- 
pitable" about  sharing  their  car,  the  towns- 
people added  to  their  envy  an  interested  toler- 
ance based  on  a  lively  speculation  as  to  when 
one's  own  turn  for  a  ride  would  come;  but  when 
a  whole  week  went  by,  and  not  one  of  the  many 
anxious  would-be  guests  had  been  invited,  the 
interest  and  the  tolerance  fled,  leaving  only  an 
angry  disdain  as  destructive  to  happiness  as  was 
the  gasoline  smell  of  the  car  itself. 

There  were  some  things,  however,  that  the 
townspeople  did  not  know.  They  did  not  know 
that,  though  the  Wheelers  had  a  motor-car, 
they  had  almost  nothing  else;  no  new  clothes, 
except  dust  coats  and  goggles;  no  new  books 
and  magazines,  except  such  as  dealt  with  "the 
practical  upkeep  and  operation  of  a  car";  no 
leisure,  for  the  car  must  be  kept  repaired  and 
shining;  no  fresh  vegetables  to  eat,  for  the 
garden  had  died  long  ago  from  want  of  care, 

280 


The  Elephant's  Board  and  Keep 

and  they  could  buy  only  gasoline.  But  they 
did  have  an  automobile.  This  much  the  town 
knew;  and  there  came  a  day  when  this  fact 
loomed  large  and  ominous  on  the  horizon  of  the 
Wheelers'  destiny. 

On  the  first  day  of  October  the  bank  in  which 
young  Wheeler  worked  closed  its  doors.  There 
had  been  a  defalcation.  A  large  sum  of  money 
was  missing,  and  the  long  finger  of  suspicion 
pointed  to  Herbert  Wheeler. 

Did  he  not  sport  an  automobile?  Was  he 
not  living  far  beyond  his  means?  Had  not 
the  Wheelers  for  weeks  past  flaunted  their  ill- 
gotten  wealth  in  the  very  eyes  of  the  whole 
town?  To  be  sure  they  had.  The  idea,  indeed, 
of  a  twelve-hundred-dollar-a-year  clerk  trying 
to  cut  a  dash  like  that!  As  if  every  one  could 
not  guess  just  where  had  gone  that  missing  sum 
of  money. 

And  so  the  town  talked  and  wagged  its  head, 
and  back  in  the  tiny  house  in  the  midst  of  its 
unkept  lawn  and  garden  sat  the  angry,  fright- 
ened, and  appalled  Herbert  Wheeler,  and  Jes- 
sica, his  wife. 

In  vain  did  the  Wheelers  point  out  that  the 
281 


The  Tangled  Threads 

automobile  was  a  gift.  In  vain  did  they  bare  to 
doubting  eyes  the  whole  pitiful  poverty  of  their 
daily  life.  The  town  refused  to  see  or  to  under- 
stand; in  the  town's  eyes  was  the  vision  of  the 
Wheeler  automobile  flying  through  the  streets 
with  selfishly  empty  seats;  in  the  town's  nose 
was  the  hateful  smell  of  gasoline.  Nothing  else 
signified. 

To  the  bank  examiners,  however,  something 
else  did  signify.  But  it  took  their  sworn  state- 
ment, together  with  the  suicide  of  Cashier 
Jewett  (the  proved  defaulter),  to  convince  the 
town;  and  even  then  the  town  shook  its  head 
and  said: 

"Well,  it  might  have  been  that  automobile, 
anyhow!" 

The  Wheelers  sold  their  elephant  —  their 
motor-car. 

"Yes,  I  think  we  'd  better  sell  it,"  agreed 
Jessica  tearfully,  when  her  husband  made  the 
proposition.  "Of  course  the  car  did  n't  cost  us 
anything,  but  we  —  " 

"Cost  us  anything!"  cut  in  Herbert  Wheeler 
wrathfully.  "Cost  us  anything!  Why,  it 's  done 

282 


The  Elephant's  Board  and  Keep 

nothing  but  cost  from  the  day  it  smashed  those 
two  eggs  in  the  kitchen  to  the  day  it  almost 
smashed  my  reputation  at  the  bank.  Why, 
Jessica,  it 's  cost  us  everything — food,  clothing, 
fun,  friends,  and  almost  life  itself!  I  think  we  '11 
sell  that  automobile." 
And  they  sold  it. 


A  Patron  of  Art 

MRS.  LIVINGSTONE  adored  art  — Art 
with  a  capital  A,  not  the  kind  whose 
sign-manual  is  a  milking-stool  or  a  beribboned 
picture  frame.  The  family  had  lived  for  some 
time  in  a  shabby-genteel  house  on  Beacon  Hill, 
ever  since,  indeed,  Mrs.  Livingstone  had  in- 
sisted on  her  husband's  leaving  the  town  of  his 
birth  and  moving  to  Boston  —  the  center  of 
Art  (according  to  Mrs.  Livingstone). 

Here  she  attended  the  Symphony  Concerts 
(on  twenty-five  cent  tickets),  and  prattled 
knowingly  of  Mozart  and  Beethoven ;  and  here 
she  listened  to  Patti  or  Bernhardt  from  the 
third  balcony  of  the  Boston  Theater.  If  she 
attended  an  exhibit  of  modern  paintings  she  saw 
no  beauty  in  pictured  face  or  flower,  but  longed 
audibly  for  the  masterpieces  of  Rubens  and  of 
Titian;  and  she  ignored  the  ordinary  books  and 
periodicals  of  the  day,  even  to  the  newspapers, 
and  adorned  her  center-table  with  copies  of 
Shakespeare  and  of  Milton. 
284 


A  Patron  of  Art 

To  be  sure,  she  occasionally  read  a  novel  or  a 
book  of  poems  a  trifle  less  ancient  in  character, 
but  never  unless  the  world  had  rung  with  the 
author's  praises  for  at  least  a  score  of  years. 
The  stamp  of  Time's  approval  was  absolutely 
necessary  to  the  aspirant  after  Mrs.  Living- 
stone's approbation.  Indeed,  there  was  only 
one  of  the  present-day  celebrities  who  inter- 
ested the  good  lady  at  all,  but  that  one  at- 
tracted with  a  power  that  compensated  for 
any  lack  in  the  others.  She  would  have  given 
much  —  had  it  been  hers  to  give  —  to  once 
meet  that  man. 

Of  course  he  was  famous  —  he  had  been  for 
thirty  years.  She  called  him  the  "Inimitable 
One,"  and  set  him  up  in  her  heart  and  groveled 
joyfully  at  his  feet.  She  bought  each  of  his 
books  when  published,  whether  she  had  shoes 
to  her  feet  or  clothes  to  her  back.  He  was  the 
Prophet  —  the  High  Priest  —  the  embodiment 
of  Art.  She  occasionally  even  allowed  his  books 
to  rest  on  the  table  along  with  Milton  and 
Shakespeare. 

Mrs.  Livingstone's  husband  was  only  an  or- 
dinary being  who  knew  nothing  whatever  of 
285 


The  Tangled  Threads 

Art;  and  it  was  a  relief  to  her  —  and  perhaps  to 
him,  poor  man  —  when  he  departed  this  life,  and 
left  her  to  an  artistic  widowhood  with  anything 
but  an  artistic  income  —  if  size  counts  in  Art. 
But  one  must  eat,  and  one  must  wear  clothes 
(in  chilly,  civilized  Boston,  at  least),  and  Mrs. 
Livingstone  suddenly  realized  that  something 
must  be  done  toward  supplying  these  necessi- 
ties of  life  for  herself  and  her  young  daughter, 
Mabel. 

It  was  at  about  this  time  that  there  came  a 
sharp  ring  at  the  doorbell,  and  a  stout  man  with 
small,  but  very  bright,  black  eyes  asked  to  see 
Mrs.  Livingstone. 

"I  have  come,  my  dear  madam,  on  a  matter 
of  business,"  said  he  suavely;  "and  though  I  am 
a  stranger  to  you,  you  certainly  are  not  one  to 
me.  I  said  'business,'  madam,  yet  I  and  the 
one  for  whom  I  am  speaking  are  so  anxious  that 
you  should  look  favorably  upon  our  proposition 
that  I  had  almost  said  that  I  had  come  to  ask  a 
favor." 

Mrs.  Livingstone  relaxed  from  the  forbidding 
aspect  she  had  assumed,  and  looked  mildly 
interested. 

286 


A  Patron  of  Art 

"A  gentleman  wishes  to  leave  his  house  in 
your  charge,  madam.  The  house  is  advertised 
for  sale,  and  from  time  to  time  parties  may 
wish  to  see  it.  He  would  like  it  to  be  in  the  care 
of  some  one  who  will  understand  how  to  show 
it  to  the  best  advantage,  you  see." 

Mrs.  Livingstone's  back  straightened,  and 
her  chin  rose  perceptibly.  Had  she  come  to 
this  —  a  common  caretaker?  And  yet  —  there 
was  Mabel.  Something  must  certainly  be  done. 

"Who is  this  man? "she  asked  aggressively; 
and  then  she  almost  started  from  her  chair  as 
the  name  fell  from  the  other's  lips  —  it  was 
that  borne  by  the  Inimitable  One. 

"That  man!"  she  exclaimed  breathlessly. 
"That  famous  creature  with  the  world  at  his 
feet!"  _ 

The  stout  gentleman  opposite  smiled,  and 
his  little  eyes  narrowed  to  mere  slits  of  light. 
He  had  counted  on  this.  His  employer  was  in- 
deed famous  —  very  famous,  though  perhaps 
not  in  the  way  this  good  lady  supposed.  It  was 
not  the  first  time  he  had  traded  on  this  conven- 
ient similarity  of  names. 

"I  thought,  madam,  we  had  made  no  mis- 
287 


The  Tangled  Threads 

take.  I  was  sure  you  would  deem  it  a  privilege. 
And  as  for  us,  your  keen  appreciative  sense  of 
the  fitness  of  things  will  —  er  —  will  make  it  a 
favor  to  us  if  you  comply  with  our  request," 
said  he,  floundering  in  helpless  confusion  for  a 
moment. 

But  Mrs.  Livingstone  did  not  notice.  She 
went  through  the  rest  of  that  interview  in  a 
dazed,  ecstatic  wonder.  She  only  knew  at  its 
conclusion  that  she  was  to  go  up  to  Vermont  to 
care  for  His  house,  to  live  in  the  rooms  that  He 
had  lived  in,  to  rest  where  He  had  rested,  to 
walk  where  He  had  walked,  to  see  what  He  had 
seen.  And  she  was  to  receive  pay  —  money  for 
this  blissful  privilege.  Incredible! 

It  did  not  take  Mrs.  Livingstone  long  to  make 
all  necessary  arrangements.  The  shabby-gen- 
teel house  in  Boston  was  rented  by  the  month, 
all  furnished,  and  the  good  lady  promptly  gave 
her  notice  and  packed  her  trunks  for  departure. 
The  first  day  of  the  month  found  her  and  her 
daughter  whirling  away  from  the  city  toward 
their  destination. 

As  they  stepped  from  the  train  to  the  plat- 
form at  the  little  country  station,  Mrs.  Living- 
288 


A  Patron  of  Art 

stone  looked  about  her  with  awed  interest.  He 
had  been  here !  The  jouncing  yellow  stage  coach 
became  a  hallowed  golden  chariot,  and  the  ride 
to  the  house  a  sacred  pilgrimage.  She  quoted 
His  poetry  on  the  doorstep,  and  entered  the  hall 
with  a  reverent  obeisance;  whereupon  the  man 
who  brought  the  trunks  ever  after  referred  to 
her  with  a  significant  tap  on  his  forehead  and 
the  single  word  "cracked." 

"Only  think,  Mabel,  He  walked  here,  and 
sat  here,"  said  the  woman  adoringly,  suiting 
the  action  to  the  word  and  sinking  into  a  great 
Morris  chair. 

Mabel  sniffed  her  disdain. 

"I  presume  so;  but  I  should  like  to  know 
where  he  ate  —  maybe  he  left  something! " 

Mrs.  Livingstone  rose  in  despairing  resigna- 
tion. 

"Just  like  your  father,  child.  No  conception 
of  anything  but  the  material  things  of  life.  I 
did  hope  my  daughter  would  have  some  sym- 
pathy with  me;  but  it  seems  she  has  n't.  Bring 
me  my  bag  —  the  black  one;  the  lunch  is  in 
that.  Of  course  we  can't  have  a  warm  supper 
until  we  get  started." 

289 


The  Tangled  Threads 

The  next  few  days  were  a  dream  of  bliss  to 
Mrs.  Livingstone.  The  house  was  a  handsome 
mansion  set  well  back  from  the  street,  and  sur- 
rounded by  beautiful  grounds  which  were  kept 
in  order  by  a  man  who  came  two  or  three  times 
a  week  to  attend  to  them.  Mrs.  Livingstone 
had  but  herself  and  Mabel  to  care  for,  and  she 
performed  the  work  of  the  house  as  a  high- 
priestess  might  have  attended  upon  the  altars 
of  her  gods.  It  was  on  the  fifth  day  that  a  grow- 
ing wonder  in  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Livingstone 
found  voice. 

"Mabel,  there  is  n't  one  of  His  works  in  the 
house  —  not  one.  I  Ve  been  everywhere! "  said 
the  woman  plaintively. 

"Well,  mother,"  laughed  the  girl  saucily, 
"that's  the  most  sensible  thing  I  ever  knew  of 
the  man.  I  don't  wonder  he  did  n't  want  them 
round  —  I  should  n't!" 

"Mabel!" 

"Well,  I  shouldn't!"  And  Mabel  laughed 
wickedly  while  her  mother  sighed  at  the  out- 
spoken heresy.  It  was  plain  that  Mabel  had  no 
soul. 

Mrs.  Livingstone  was  furthermore  surprised 
290 


A  Patron  of  Art 

at  her  idol's  taste  in  art;  some  of  the  pictures  on 
the  wall  were  a  distinct  shock  to  her.  And  if 
the  absence  of  the  Inimitable  One's  works  as- 
tonished her,  the  presence  of  some  others'  books 
certainly  did  more  than  that. 

The  house  was  to  be  sold  completely  fur- 
nished, with  the  exception  of  the  books  and 
pictures.  The  price  was  high,  and  there  were 
but  few  prospective  purchasers.  Occasionally 
people  came  to  see  the  property;  such  Mrs. 
Livingstone  conducted  about  the  house  with 
reverent  impressiveness,  displaying  its  various 
charms  much  as  a  young  mother  would  "show 
off"  her  baby. 

"It  is  something  to  buy  a  house  owned  by  so 
famous  a  man, "  she  insinuated  gently  one  day, 
after  vainly  trying  to  awaken  a  proper  enthusi- 
asm in  a  prim  little  woman  who  was  talking  of 
purchasing.  , 

"Indeed!"  replied  the  other,  frigidly.  "Do 
you  think  so?  I  must  confess  it  is  somewhat  of 
a  drawback  to  me."  And  from  that  time  Mrs. 
Livingstone  wore  an  injured  air  —  the  young 
mother's  baby  had  been  snubbed  —  grievously 
snubbed. 

291 


The  Tangled  Threads 

There  were  times  when  Mrs.  Livingstone  was 
lonely.  Only  one  of  her  neighbors  had  called, 
and  that  one  had  not  repeated  the  visit.  Per- 
haps the  lady's  report  —  together  with  that  of 
the  trunkman  —  was  not  conducive  to  further 
acquaintance.  It  would  appear  so. 

Toward  the  last  of  the  summer  a  wild  plan 
entered  Mrs.  Livingstone's  brain;  and  after 
some  days  of  trembling  consideration,  she  de- 
termined to  carry  it  out.  The  morning  mail  bore 
a  letter  from  her  to  the  Inimitable  One  through 
his  publishers.  She  had  learned  that  he  was  to 
be  in  Boston,  and  she  had  written  to  beg  him 
to  come  up  to  his  old  home  and  see  if  it  was 
being  cared  for  to  his  satisfaction.  The  moments 
dragged  as  though  weighted  with  lead  until  the 
answer  came.  When  at  last  it  was  in  her  hands, 
she  twisted  a  hairpin  under  the  flap  of  the  envel- 
ope and  tore  out  the  letter  with  shaking  ringers. 

It  was  from  the  Inimitable  One's  private  sec- 
retary. The  Inimitable  One  did  not  understand 
her  letter  —  he  was  the  owner  of  no  house  in 
Vermont;  there  was  doubtless  some  mistake. 
That  was  all.  The  communication  was  wholly 
enigmatic. 

292 


A  Patron  of  Art 

The  letter  fluttered  to  the  floor,  and  Mrs. 
Livingstone's  dazed  eyes  rested  on  the  gardener 
in  the  lawn  below.  In  a  moment  she  was  at  his 
side. 

"Peter,  is  n't  this  house  owned  by  a  very 
famous  man?" 

"Indade  it  is,  ma'am." 

"Who  is  he?"  she  demanded  shortly,  holding 
her  breath  until  that  familiar  name  borne  by 
the  Inimitable  One  passed  the  other's  lips. 

"Well,  Peter,  is  n't  he  the  writer?  What  does 
he  do  for  a  living?"  she  faltered,  still  mystified. 

"Do?  He  fights,  ma'am.  He 's  the  big  prize- 
fighter that  won  — "  He  was  talking  to  empty 
air.  The  woman  had  fled. 


When  Polly  Ann  Played 
Santa  Glaus 

The  Great  Idea  and  What  Came  of  It 

MARGARET  BRACKETT  turned  her 
head  petulantly  from  side  to  side  on  the 
pillow.  "  I  'm  sure  I  don't  see  why  this  had  to 
come  to  me  now, "  she  moaned. 

Polly  Ann  Brackett,  who  had  been  hastily 
summoned  .to  care  for  her  stricken  relative, 
patted  the  pillow  hopefully. 

"Sho!  now,  Aunt  Margaret,  don't  take  on 
so.  Just  lie  still  and  rest.  You  're  all  beat  out. 
That 's  what 's  the  matter." 

The  sick  woman  gave  an  impatient  sigh. 

"But,  Polly  Ann,  it 's  only  the  22d.  I  ought 
not  to  be  that  —  yet!  It  never  comes  until  the 
26th,  and  I  'm  prepared  for  it  then.  Sarah  Bird 
comes  Christmas  Day,  you  know." 

Polly  Ann's  jaw  dropped.  Her  eyes  stared 
frankly. 

"Sarah  Bird!"  she  cried.  "You  don't  mean 
294 


you  engaged  her  beforehand — a  nurse!  That 
you  knew  you 'd  need  her!" 

"Of  course.  I  do  every  year.  Polly  Ann, 
don't  stare  so!  As  if  Christmas  did  n't  use  every 
one  up  —  what  with  the  shopping  and  all  the 
planning  and  care  it  takes ! " 

"But  I  thought  Christmas  was  a  —  a  pleas- 
ure," argued  Polly  Ann  feebly;  "something  to 
enjoy.  Not  to  —  to  get  sick  over.  " 

"Enjoy  —  yes,  though  not  to  be  taken 
lightly,  understand,"  returned  the  elder  woman 
with  dignity.  "It  is  no  light  thing  to  select 
and  buy  suitable,  appropriate  gifts.  And  now, 
with  half  of  them  to  be  yet  tied  up  and  labeled, 
here  I  am,  flat  on  my  back,"  she  finished  with  a 
groan. 

"Can't  I  do  it?  Of  course  I  can!"  cried  Polly 
Ann  confidently. 

The  sick  woman  turned  with  troubled  eyes. 

"Why,  I  suppose  you'll  have  to  do  it,"  she 
sighed,  "as  long  as  I  can't.  Part  of  them  are 
done  up,  anyway;  but  there 's  John's  family  and 
Mary  and  the  children  left.  John's  are  in  the 
middle  drawer  of  the  bureau  in  the  attic  hall, 
and  Mary's  are  in  the  big  box  near  it.  You'll 
295 


The  Tangled  Threads 

know  them  right  away  when  you  see  them. 
There's  paper  and  strings  and  ribbons,  and 
cards  for  the  names,  besides  the  big  boxes  to 
send  them  in.  Seems  as  if  you  ought  to  do 
it  right,  only  —  well,  you  know  how  utterly 
irresponsible  and  absent-minded  you  are  some- 
times." 

"Nonsense!"  scoffed  Polly  Ann.  "As  if  I 
could  n't  do  up  a  parcel  of  presents  as  well  as 
you!  And  I'll  prove  it,  too.  I'll  go  right  up 
now,"  she  declared,  rising  to  her  feet  and  march- 
ing out  of  the  room. 

In  the  attic  hall  Polly  Ann  found  the  presents 
easily.  She  knew  which  was  for  which,  too;  she 
knew  Margaret  and  her  presents  of  old.  She 
did  not  need  the  little  bits  of  paper  marked, 
"For  Mary,"  "For  Tom,"  "For  John,"  "For 
Julia,"  to  tell  her  that  the  woolen  gloves  and 
thick  socks  went  into  Mary's  box,  and  the 
handsomely  bound  books  and  the  fine  lace- 
edged  handkerchief  into  John's. 

Mary,  as  all  the  Bracketts  knew,  was  the 
poor  relation  that  had  married  shiftless  Joe 
Hemenway,  who  had  died  after  a  time,  leaving 
behind  him  a  little  Joe  and  three  younger  girls 

296 


Polly  Ann  Played  Santa  Glaus 

and  a  boy.  John,  if  possible  even  better  known 
to  the  Brackett  family,  was  the  millionaire 
Congressman  to  whqm  no  Brackett  ever  failed 
to  claim  relationship  with  a  proudly  careless 
"He's  a  cousin  of  ours,  you  know,  Congress- 
man Brackett  is." 

At  once  Polly  Ann  began  her  task.  And 
then  — 

It  was  the  French  doll  that  did  it.  Polly  Ann 
was  sure  of  that,  as  she  thought  it  over  after- 
ward. From  the  middle  drawer  where  were 
John's  presents  the  doll  fell  somehow  into  the 
box  where  were  Mary's.  There  the  fluffy  gold 
of  the  doll's  hair  rioted  gloriously  across  a  pair 
of  black  woolen  socks,  and  the  blue  satin  of  its 
gown  swept  glistening  folds  of  sumptuousness 
across  a  red  flannel  petticoat.  One  rose-tipped 
waxen  hand,  outflung,  pointed,  almost  as  if  in 
scorn,  to  the  corner  of  the  box  where  lay  another 
doll,  a  doll  in  a  brown  delaine  dress,  a  doll 
whose  every  line  from  her  worsted-capped  head 
to  her  black-painted  feet  spelled  durability  and 
lack  of  charm. 

Polly  Ann  saw  this,  and  sighed.  She  was 
thinking  of  Mary's  little  crippled  Nellie  for 

297 


The  Tangled  Threads 

whom  the  brown  delaine  doll  was  designed ;  and 
she  was  remembering  what  that  same  Nellie  had 
said  one  day,  when  they  had  paused  before  a 
window  wherein  stood  another  just  such  a  little 
satin-clad  lady  as  this  interloper  from  the  mid- 
dle bureau  drawer. 

"Oh,  Cousin  Polly,  look  —  look!"  Nellie  had 
breathed.  "  Is  n't  she  be-yu-tiful  ?  Oh,  Cousin 
Polly,  if  —  if  I  had  —  one  —  like  that,  I  don't 
think  I  'd  mind  even  these — much,"  she  choked, 
patting  the  crutches  that  supported  her. 

Polly  Ann  had  sighed  then,  and  had  almost 
sobbed  aloud  as  she  disdainfully  eyed  her  own 
thin  little  purse,  whose  contents  would  scarcely 
have  bought  the  gown  that  Miss  Dolly  wore. 
She  sighed  again  now,  as  she  picked  up  the  doll 
before  her,  and  gently  smoothed  into  order  the 
shining  hair.  If  only  this  were  for  Nellie!  —  but 
it  was  n't.  It  was  for  Julia's  Roselle,  Roselle 
who  already  possessed  a  dozen  French  dolls,  and 
would  probably  possess  as  many  more  before 
her  doll  days  were  over,  while  Nellie  — 

With  a  swift  movement  Polly  Ann  dropped 
the  doll  back  into  the  box,  and  picked  up  the 
other  one.  The  next  moment  the  brown  delaine 
298 


Polly  Ann  Played  Santa  Glaus 

dress  was  rubbing  elbows  with  a  richly  bound 
book  and  a  Duchesse  lace  collar  in  the  middle 
bureau  drawer.  Polly  Ann  cocked  her  head  to 
one  side  and  debated;  did  she  dare  ask  Aunt 
Margaret  to  make  the  change? 

With  a  slow  shake  of  her  head  she  owned  that 
she  did  not.  She  knew  her  aunt  and  her  aunt's 
convictions  as  to  the  ethics  of  present-giving 
too  well.  And,  if  she  were  tempted  to  doubt, 
there  were  the  two  sets  of  presents  before  her, 
both  of  which,  even  down  to  the  hemp  twine 
and  brown  paper  in  one  and  the  red  ribbons 
and  white  tissue-paper  in  the  other,  proclaimed 
their  donor's  belief  as  to  the  proper  distribu- 
tion of  usefulness  and  beauty. 
i  The  two  dolls  did  look  odd  in  their  present 
environment.  Polly  Ann  admitted  that.  Re- 
luctantly she  picked  them  up,  and  was  about  to 
return  each  to  her  own  place,  when  suddenly  the 
Great  Idea  was  born. 

With  a  little  cry  and  a  tense  biting  of  her  lip 
Polly  Ann  fell  back  before  it.  Then  excitedly 
she  leaned  forward,  and  examined  with  search- 
ing eyes  the  presents.  She  drew  a  long  breath, 
and  stood  erect  again. 

299 


The  Tangled  Threads 

"Well,  why  not?"  she  asked  herself.  Aunt 
Margaret  had  said  she  was  utterly  irresponsible 
and  absent-minded.  Very  well,  then ;  she  would 
be  utterly  irresponsible  and  absent-minded. 
She  would  change  the  labels  and  misdirect  the 
boxes.  John's  should  go  to  Mary,  and  Mary's 
to  John.  Nellie  should  have  that  doll.  Inci- 
dentally Nellie's  mother  and  sisters  and  brother 
and  grandmother  should  have,  too,  for  once  in 
their  starved  lives,  a  Christmas  present  that  did 
not  shriek  durability  the  moment  the  wrappings 
fell  away. 

It  was  nothing  but  fun  for  Polly  Ann  after 
this.  With  unafraid  hands  she  arranged  the  two 
sets  of  presents  on  the  top  of  the  bureau,  and 
planned  their  disposal.  Mentally  she  reviewed 
the  two  families.  In  Mary's  home  there  were 
Mary  herself;  Joe,  eighteen;  Jennie,  sixteen; 
Carrie,  fourteen;  Tom,  eleveaj-and  Nellie,  six; 
besides  Grandma.  In  John's  there  were  John, 
his  wife,  Julia;  their  son  Paul,  ten;  and  daughter 
Roselle,  four;  besides  John's  younger  sister 
Barbara,  eighteen,  and  his  mother. 

It  took  a  little  planning  to  make  the  presents 
for  six  on  the  one  hand  do  for  seven  on  the 

300 


WELL.  WHY  NOT?  "SHE  ASKED  HERSELF 


Polly  Ann  Played  Santa  Glaus 

other,  and  vice  versa;  but  with  a  little  skillful 
dividing  and  combining  it  was  done  at  last 
to  Polly  Ann's  huge  satisfaction.  Then  came 
the  tying-up  and  the  labeling.  And  here  again 
Polly  Ann's  absent-mindedness  got  in  its  fine 
work;  for  the  red  ribbons  and  the  white  tissue- 
paper  went  into  Mary's  box,  which  left,  of 
course,  only  the  brown  paper  and  hemp  twine 
for  John's. 

"There!"  sighed  Polly  Ann  when  the  boxes 
themselves  were  at  last  tied  up  and  addressed. 
"Now  we  '11  see  what  we  shall  see!"  But  even 
Polly  Ann,  in  spite  of  her  bravely  upheld  chin, 
trembled  a  little  as  she  turned  toward  the  room 
where  Margaret  Brackett  lay  sick. 

It  was  a  pity,  as  matters  were,  that  Polly  Ann 
could  not  have  been  a  fly  on  the  wall  of  Mary's 
sitting-room  at  that  moment,  for  Mary's  Jen- 
nie was  saying  gloomily,  "I  suppose,  mother, 
we'll  have  Cousin  Margaret's  Christmas  box  as 
usual." 

"I  suppose  so,"  her  mother  answered.   Then 
with  a  determined  cheerfulness  came  the  asser- 
tion, "  Cousin  Margaret  is  always  very  kind  and 
thoughtful,  you  know,  Jennie." 
301 


The  Tangled  Threads 

There  was  a  pause,  broken  at  last  by  a  muti- 
nous "  I  don't  think  so,  mother." 

"Why,  Jennie!" 

"Well,  I  don't.  She  may  be  kind,  but  she 
is  n't  —  thoughtful." 

"Why,  my  daughter!"  remonstrated  the 
shocked  mother  again.  "  I  'm  ashamed  of  you ! " 

"I  know;  it 's  awful,  of  course,  but  I  can't 
help  it,"  declared  the  girl.  "If  she  really  were 
thoughtful,  she  'd  think  sometimes  that  we  'd 
like  something  for  presents  besides  flannel 
things." 

"But  they're  so  —  sensible,  Jennie,  for — us." 

"That's  just  what  they  are —  sensible,"  re- 
torted the  girl  bitterly.  "But  who  wants  sensi- 
ble things  always  ?  We  have  to  have  them  the 
whole  year  through.  Seems  as  if  at  Christmas 
we  might  have  something  —  foolish." 

"Jennie,  Jennie,  what  are  you  saying?  and 
when  Cousin  Margaret  is  so  good  to  us,  too! 
Besides,  she  does  send  us  candy  always,  and  — 
and  that 's  foolish." 

"It  would  be  if  'twas  nice  candy,  the  kind 
we  can't  hope  ever  to  buy  ourselves.  But  it 
is  n't.  It 's  the  cheap  Christmas  candy,  two 
302 


Polly  Ann  Played  Santa  Glaus 

pounds  for  a  quarter,  the  kind  we  have  to  buy 
when  we  buy  any.  Mother,  it  's  just  that;  don't 
you  see?  Cousin  Margaret  thinks  that's  the 
only  sort  of  thing  that's  fit  for  us!  cheap,  sen- 
sible things,  the  kind  of  things  we  have  to  buy. 
But  that  does  n't  mean  that  we  would  n't  like 
something  else,  or  that  we  have  n't  any  taste, 
just  because  we  have  n't  the  means  to  gratify 
it,"  finished  the  girl  chokingly  as  she  hurried 
out  of  the  room  before  her  mother  could  reply. 

All  this,  however,  Polly  Ann  did  not  hear,  for 
Polly  Ann  was  not  a  fly  on  Mary's  sitting-room 
wall. 

On  Christmas  Day  Sarah  Bird  appeared, 
cheerfully  ready  to  take  charge  of  her  yearly 
patient;  and  Polly  Ann  went  home.  In  less  than 
a  week,  however,  Polly  Ann  was  peremptorily 
sent  for  by  the  sick  woman.  Polly  Ann  had  ex- 
pected the  summons  and  was  prepared;  yet  she 
shook  in  her  shoes  when  she  met  her  kins- 
woman's wrathful  eyes. 

"Polly  Ann,  what  did  you  do  with  those  pres- 
ents?" demanded  Margaret  Brackett  abruptly. 

"P-presents?"  Polly  Ann  tried  to  steady  her 
voice. 

303 


The  Tangled  Threads 

"Yes,  yes,  the  ones  for  Mary  and  John's 
family." 

"Why,  I  did  them  up  and  sent  them  off,  to 
be  sure.  Did  n't  they  get  'em?" 

"Get  them!"  groaned  Margaret  Brackett, 
"get  them!  Polly  Ann,  what  did  you  do?  You 
must  have  mixed  them  awfully  somehow ! " 

"Mixed  them?"  In  spite  of  her  preparation 
for  this  very  accusation  Polly  Ann  was  fencing 
for  time. 

"Yes,  mixed  them.  Look  at  that  —  and 
that  —  and  that,"  cried  the  irate  woman, 
thrusting  under  Polly  Ann's  nose  one  after 
another  of  the  notes  of  thanks  she  had  received 
the  day  before. 

They  were  from  John  and  his  family,  and  one 
by  one  Polly  Ann  picked  them  up  and  read 
them. 

John,  who  had  not  for  years,  probably,  worn 
anything  coarser  than  silk  on  his  feet,  expressed 
in  a  few  stiff  words  his  thanks  for  two  pairs  of 
black  woolen  socks.  Julia,  famed  for  the  dainty 
slenderness  of  her  hands,  expressed  in  even 
stiffer  language  her  thanks  for  a  pair  of  gray 
woolen  gloves.  She  also  begged  to  thank  Cousin 

304 


Polly  Ann  Played  Santa  Glaus 

Margaret  for  the  doll  so  kindly  sent  Roselle  and 
for  the  red  mittens  sent  to  Paul.  John's  mother, 
always  in  the  minds  of  those  who  knew  her  as- 
sociated with  perfumed  silks  and  laces,  wrote 
a  chilly  little  note  of  thanks  for  a  red  flannel 
petticoat;  while  John's  sister,  Barbara,  worth 
a  million  in  her  own  right,  scrawled  on  gold- 
monogrammed  paper  her  thanks  for  the  dozen 
handkerchiefs  that  had  been  so  kindly  sent  her 
in  the  Christmas  box. 

"And  there  were  n't  a  dozen  handkerchiefs, 
I  tell  you,"  groaned  Margaret,  "except  the  cot- 
ton ones  I  sent  to  Mary's  two  girls,  Jennie 
and  Carrie,  six  to  each.  Think  of  it — cotton 
handkerchiefs  to  Barbara  Marsh !  And  that  red 
flannel  petticoat,  and  those  ridiculous  gloves 
and  socks!  Oh,  Polly  Ann,  Polly  Ann,  how 
could  you  have  done  such  a  thing,  and  got 
everything  so  hopelessly  mixed  ?  There  was  n't 
a  thing,  not  a  single  thing  right  but  that  doll 
for  Roselle." 

Polly  Ann  lifted  her  head  suddenly. 

"Have  you  heard  from  —  Mary?"  she  asked 
in  a  faint  voice. 

"Not  yet.  But  I  shall,  of  course.  I  suppose 
305 


The  Tangled  Threads  \ 

they  got  John's  things.  Imagine  it!  MaryHem- 
enway  and  a  Duchesse  lace  collar! " 

"Oh,  but  Mary  would  like  that,"  interposed 
Polly  Ann  feverishly.  "You  know  she 's  invited 
out  a  good  deal  in  a  quiet  way,  and  a  bit  of 
nice  lace  does  dress  up  a  plain  frock  wonder- 
fully." 

"Nonsense!  As  if  she  knew  or  cared  whether 
it  was  Duchesse  or — or  imitation  Val!  She 's 
not  used  to  such  things,  Polly  Ann.  She  would 
n't  know  what  to  do  with  them  if  she  had  thei 
While  John  and  Julia —  dear,  dear,  what  shall 
I  do?  Think  of  it —  a  red  flannel  petticoat  to 
Madam  Marsh!" 

Polly  Ann  laughed.  A  sudden  vision  had 
come  to  her  of  Madam  Marsh  as  she  had  seen 
her  last  at  a  family  wedding  clad  in  white  lace 
and  amethysts,  and  with  an  amethyst  tiara  in 
her  beautifully  dressed  hair. 

Margaret  Brackett  frowned. 

"It's  no  laughing  matter,  Polly  Ann,"  she 
said  severely.  "  I  shall  write  to  both  families 
and  explain,  of  course.  In  fact,  I  have  done  that 
already  to  John  and  Julia.  But  nothing,  nothing 
can  take  away  my  mortification  that  such  a  thing 
306 


Polly  Ann  Played  Santa  Glaus 

should  have  occurred  at  all.  And  when  I  took 
so  much  pains  in  selecting  those  presents,  to  get 
suitable  ones  for  both  boxes.  I  can't  forgive 
you,  Polly  Ann;  I  just  can't.  And,  what 's  more, 
I  don't  see  how  in  the  world  you  did  it.  I  am 
positive  that  I  had  each  thing  marked  carefully, 
and—" 

She  did  not  finish  her  sentence.  Sarah  Bird 
brought  in  a  letter,  and  with  a  petulant  excla- 
mation Margaret  Brackett  tore  it  open. 

"It 's  from  Mary,"  she  cried  as  soon  as  Sarah 
Bird  had  left  the  room;  "and  —  goodness,  look 
at  the  length  of  it!  Here,  you  read  it,  Polly 
Ann.  It 's  lighter  by  the  window."  And  she 
passed  the  letter  to  her  niece. 

Dear  Cousin  Margaret  [read  Polly  Ann  aloud]: 
I  wonder  if  I  can  possibly  tell  you  what  that 
Christmas  box  was  to  us.  I  'm  going  to  try,  any- 
way; but  I  don't  believe,  even  then,  that  you'll 
quite  understand  it,  for  you  never  were  just  as 
we  are,  and  you  'd  have  to  be  to  know  what  that 
box  was  to  us. 

You  see  we  can't  buy  nice  things,  really  nice 
things,  ever.  There  are  always  so  many  "have- 
togets"  that  there  is  never  anything  left  for  the 
"  want-to-gets " ;  and  so  we  had  to  do  without  — 

307 


The  Tangled  Threads 

till  your  box  came.  And  then  —  but  just  let  me 
tell  you  what  did  happen  when  it  did  come. 

The  expressman  brought  it  Christmas  Eve, 
and  Joe  opened  it  at  once.  Mother  and  I \nd  all 
the  children  stood  around  watching  him.\you 
should  have  heard  the  "Ohs!"  and"Ahs!" 
light  when  the  pretty  white  packages  all  tied  witl 
red  ribbons  were  brought  to  light.  By  the  way, 
Nellie  has  captured  all  those  red  ribbons,  and 
her  entire  family  of  dolls  is  rejoicing  in  a  Merry 
Christmas  of  their  own  in  consequence. 

As  for  the  presents  themselves  —  I  don't  know 
where  to  begin  or  how  to  say  it;  but  I'll  begin 
with  myself,  and  try  to  make  you  understand. 

That  beautiful  Duchesse  lace  collar!  I  love  it 
already,  and  I'm  actually  vain  as  a  peacock 
over  it.  I  had  made  over  mother's  black  silk  for 
myself  this  fall,  and  I  did  so  want  some  nice  lace 
for  it!  You've  no  idea  how  beautiful,  really  beau- 
tiful, the  dress  looks  with  that  collar.  I  shan't  cry 
now  when  I'm  invited  anywhere.  It's  a  pity,  and 
I'm  ashamed  that  it  is  so;  but  clothes  do  make 
such  a  difference. 

Mother  is  fairly  reveling  in  that  lovely  silk  and 
lace  workbag.  She  has  carried  it  with  her  all  day 
all  over  the  house,  just  to  look  at  it,  she  says. 
She  has  always  wanted  some  such  thing,  but 
never  thought  she  ought  to  take  the  money  to 
buy  one.  She  and  two  or  three  other  old  ladies  in 
the  neighborhood  have  a  way  of  exchanging  after- 
noon visits  with  their  work;  and  mother  is  as 

308 


Polly  Ann  Played  Santa  Glaus 

pleased  as  a  child  now,  and  is  impatiently  await- 
ing the  next  "meet"  so  she  can  show  off  her  new 
treasure.  Yet,  to  see  her  with  it,  one  would  think 
she  had  always  carried  silk  workbags,  scented 
with  lavender. 

Joe  is  more  than  delighted  with  his  handsome 
set  of  books.  And  really  they  do  lighten  our  dull 
sitting-room  wonderfully,  and  we  are  all  proud 
of  them.  He  is  planning  to  read  them  aloud  to  us 
all  this  winter,  and  I  am  so  glad.  I  am  particu- 
larly glad,  for  we  not  only  shall  have  the  pleasure 
of  hearing  the  stories  themselves,  but  I  shall  have 
the  satisfaction  of  knowing  where  my  boy  is 
evenings.  Joe  is  a  good  lad  always,  but  he  has 
been  worrying  me  a  little  lately,  for  he  seemed  to 
like  to  be  away  so  much.  Yet  I  could  n't  wonder, 
for  I  had  so  little  to  offer  him  at  home  for  enter- 
tainment. Now  I  have  these  books. 

Carrie  is  wild  over  her  necklace  of  pretty  stones. 
She  says  they're  "all  the  rage"  at  school  among 
the  girls,  and  the  very  latest  thing  out.  Dear 
child!  she  does  so  love  pretty  things,  and  of  course 
I  can't  give  them  to  her.  It  is  the  same  with 
Jennie,  and  she  is  equally  pleased  with  that 
dainty  lace-edged  handkerchief.  It  is  such  a  nice 
handkerchief,  and  Jennie,  like  her  mother,  does 
so  love  nice  things! 

Tom  was  almost  speechless  with  joy  when  he 
discovered  that  sumptuous  knife.  But  he  has  n't 
been  speechless  since  —  not  a  bit  of  it!  There 
is  n't  any  one  anywhere  within  the  radius  of  a 

309 


The  Tangled 


mile,  I  guess,  to  whom  he  has  n't  shown  every 
blade  and  corkscrew  and  I  don't-know-what-all 
that  that  wonderful  knife  can  unfold. 

IVe  left  Nellie  till  the  last,  but  not  because 
she  is  the  least.  Poor  dear  little  girlie!  My  heart 
aches  now  that  I  realize  how  she  has  longed  for 
a  beautiful  doll,  one  that  could  open  and  shut  its 
eyes,  say  "Papa"  and  "Mamma,"  and  one  that 
was  daintily  dressed.  I  had  no  idea  the  little 
thing  would  be  so  overcome.  She  turned  white, 
then  red,  and  actually  sobbed  with  joy  when  the 
doll  was  put  into  her  arms,  though  since  then 
she  has  been  singing  all  over  the  house,  and  has 
seemed  so  happy.  I'm  sure  you  will  believe  this 
when  I  tell  you  that  I  overheard  her  last  night 
whisper  into  dolly's  ear  that  now  she  did  n't 
mind  half  so  much  not  being  like  other  girls  who 
could  run  and  play,  because  she  had  her  to  love 
and  care  for. 

And  then  the  candy  that  was  marked  for  all 
of  us  —  and  such  candy!  All  their  lives  the  chil- 
dren have  longingly  gazed  at  such  candy  through 
store  windows,  and  dreamed  what  it  might  taste 
like;  but  to  have  it  right  in  their  hands  —  in  their 
mouths!  You  should  have  heard  their  rapturous 
sighs  of  content  as  it  disappeared.  v 

And  now,  dear  Cousin  Margaret,  can  you  see  a 
little  what  that  Christmas  box  has  been  to  us? 
I  can't  bear  to  say,  "Thank  you";  it  seems  so 
commonplace  and  inadequate.  And  yet  there 
is  n't  anything  else  I  can  say.  And  we  do  thank 

310 


Polly  Ann  Played  Santa  Glaus 

you,  each  and  every  one  of  us.  We  thank  you 
both  for  our  own  gift,  and  for  all  the  others,  for 
each  one's  gift  is  making  all  the  others  happy. 
Do  you  see?  Oh,  I  hope  you  do  see  and  that  you 
do  understand  that  we  appreciate  all  the  care 
and  pains  you  must  have  taken  to  select  just  the 
present  that  each  of  us  most  longed  for. 
Lovingly  and  gratefully  yours, 

MARY. 

Polly  Ann's  voice  quivered  into  silence.  It 
had  already  broken  once  or  twice,  and  it  was 
very  husky  toward  the  last.  For  a  moment  no 
one  spoke;  then  with  an  evident  attempt  at 
carelessness  Margaret  said:  "I  guess,  Polly 
Ann,  I  won't  write  to  Mary  at  all  that  there  was 
any  mistake.  We  '11  let  it  —  pass." 

There  was  no  answer.  Twice  Polly  Ann 
opened  her  lips,  but  no  sound  came.  After 
a  moment  she  got  to  her  feet,  and  walked 
slowly  across  the  room.  At  the  door  she  turned 
abruptly. 

"Aunt  Margaret,"  she  panted,  "I  suppose  I 
ought  to  tell  you.  There  wa'n't  any  —  mistake. 
I  —  I  changed  those  presents  on  purpose." 
Then  she  went  out  quickly  and  shut  the  door. 


THE  END 


Ibe  fiitoetfibe 

BRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 


•  •    ••    I   II    I  II  I  II    I  I     II 

A     000110483     5 


